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The  Duke's  Secret 


BY 


CHARLOTTE   M.  BRAEME 

Author  of  "Dora  Thorne,"  "Thrown  on  the  World,"  "His 
Mother's  Sin,"  Etc. 


NEW  YORK 
HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET. 


PROLOGUR 

I^TMni7.\,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  sat  alone  in  hei 
boudoir  at  Rood  Castle,  and  few  women  in  England  were 
more  proud,  more  handsome  and  stately  than  her  grace; 
she  had  not  met  even  with  the  traditional  rose-leaf;  her 
life  had  been  one  of  uninterrupted  prosperity  and  bril- 
liancy; she  was  born  a  beauty  and  an  heiress.  From  the 
time  she  lay  in  her  cradle  a  bab}-,  with  a  face  like  a  rose- 
bud, until  now — a  woman,  in  all  the  plentitude  of  her 
charms — she  had  known  no  sorrow,  no  care,  no  want 
The  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  grand  old  race  of  Motmt 
Severns,  the  last  of  a  long  and  illustrious  line,  its  proud 
spirit  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  her.  As  a  girl  she 
was  beautiful  to  a  wonder,  with  the  dark,  imperial  love- 
liness that  one  gives  to  an  empress;  with  her  beauty,  title, 
rank  and  wealth,  she  was  entitled  to  marry  more  than 
well,  and  she  made  the  best  match  of  the  day.  From  a 
host  of  lovers  she  chose  the  young  Duke  of  Castlemayne. 
He  was  singularly  handsome  in  person  and  immensely 
rich.  Besides  an  enormous  rent-roll,  he  had  the  vast 
accumulations  of  a  long  minority;  and  when  he  came  of 
age  his  was  a  fortune  a  king  might  have  envied.  Then, 
from  being  the  most  lovely  girl  in  the  kingdom,  she  be- 
came the  most  beautiful  and  popular  woman.  Always 
proud,  haughty  and  stately,  there  was  a  grace  and  fasci- 
nation in  her  manner  which  no  one  could  resist.  Wealth, 
honors,  favors,  homage,  jvimiration  were  lavished  on  her. 
She  was  for  many  years  the  queen  of  society.  Her  hus- 
band worshiped  her,  and  she  governed  him  completely. 
She  had  ouq  son,  who  b^lieyed  in  her  as  h9  did  in  HeavAik 

2134484    '■ 


4  THE  DUKE'S  SECRET. 

and  stood  almost  as  much  in  awe  of  her.  The  world  lay 
at  her  f^et;  her  every  wish  was  law;  her  every  caprice, 
whim  and  desire  gratified;  her  every  thought  and  word 
accepted  as  the  Medes  and  Persians  accepted  their  laws. 
No  one  had  ever  contradicted  or  thwarted  her.  She  had 
never  heard  a  rough  or  unkind  word;  and  now,  on  this 
beautiful  July  morning,  she  sits  in  the  midst  of  her  mag- 
nificence, face  to  face  with  the  first  trouble  of  her  life. 

Her  first  trouble;  and  the  duchess  does  not  bear  it 
well  She  looks  troubled  and  anxious.  It  had  always 
been  a  very  easy  matter  for  her  to  manage  her  husband, 
but  this  trouble  concerned  her  son,  and  he  was  not  quite 
so  easy  to  manage.  She  looks  hke  a  picture  just  stepped 
from  its  frame;  her  dress  of  black  velvet  falls  in  royal 
folds,  the  lace  on  her  head  is  costly  enough  for  a  queen, 
her  white  hands  shine  with  gems.  She  is  surroimded  by 
magnificence  of  every  kind.  Yet  on  the  white,  impassive 
brow  there  are  lines  never  seen  before. 

"  My  only  son,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  the  only  hope  of 
bis  race.     My  handsome,  noble  boy." 

There  was  passionate  pain  and  passionate  love  in  the 
voice  as  she  uttered  the  words,  for  the  proud,  beautiful 
duchess  loved  her  son  with  a  force  and  intensity  that 
love  seldom  reaches.  She  took  up  a  book,  scanned  the 
pages,  then  replaced  it 

"  I  must  do  it,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  uetter  now  than 
later  in  the  day,  when  Herbert  is  about.  He  is  so  weak 
and  so  impressionable  that  if  the  girl  cries  he  would  not 
have  the  nerve  to  act  so  promptly.    Oh,  my  son,  my  son  1" 

She  touched  a  Httle  silver  gong  that  stood  on  the  table 
by  her  side,  and  the  next  minute  the  footman  entered  the 
room. 

"  Tell  Miss  Wynter  I  wish  to  see  her  here,  and  at  once," 
said  her  grace,  and  the  messenger  hastened  to  obey. 
Prompt  obedience  was  part  of  that  well-trained  household. 

The  duchess  resumed  her  seat,  and  the  frown  on  her 
fine  face  deepened. 

"  To  think  that  I  should  have  to  speak  on  the  matter," 
she  said  to  herself.     "  It  is  abhorrent  to  me." 

On  the  table  by  her  side  lay  a  fine  white  handkerchief 
deUcately  perfumed  with  violets,  a  knot  of  ribbon  of  a 
peculiar  mauve  tint,  and  the  duchess  looked  at  them  witk 
imcoucealed  scorn. 


THE  DtrKE'S  SEOEET.  5 

"  It  is  her  fault,  I  am  sure,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  and 
not  Bertrand's.  I  believe  the  women  are  always  to  blame." 

Then  she  heard  the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps. 
Her  face  flushed,  and  her  eyes  filled  with  angry  light. 

"  Come  in,"  she  said,  in  answer  to  a  low,  timid  knock. 

A  girl  entered — beautiful  as  ever  was  painter's  fancy 
or  poet's  dream — a  tall,  slender  girl,  in  whose  graceful  fig- 
ure and  lovely  face  there  was  a  promise  of  magnificent 
womanhood;  tier  eyes  of  deepest  azure,  her  mouth  deli- 
cate, proud  and  sensitive,  with  a  beauty  half  divine  ;  her 
white  brow  was  full  of  ideality  and  poetry;  her  hair,  mag- 
nificent in  its  waving  splendor,  was  of  rich,  dark  brown, 
that  looked  like  gold  in  the  sun.  She  wore  a  plain  black 
dress,  which  showed  eveiy  graceful  hne  and  curve  of  her 
beautiful  figure.  There  was  something  of  hesitation — half 
shy,  whoUy  graceful — in  her  manner,  as  she  advanced  to 
the  table  near  which  the  duchess  sat. 

"  Your  grace  wished  to  see  me,"  she  said,  and  her  voice 
was  one  of  the  sweetest  ever  heard — sweet  and  low  as  the 
Bong  of  the  nightingale  among  the  lilies,  clear,  dehcate, 
silvery.  The  face  of  the  duchess  flushed  again  as  the  re- 
fined, melodious  accents  reached  her  ear. 

"You  are  right,  Miss  Wynter,  I  wish  to  see  you,'* 
haughtily.  As  she  looked  at  the  lovely  face  of  the  girl,  her 
face  grew  more  haughty.  She  pointed  with  a  proud  ges- 
ture, to  the  handkerchief  and  the  knot  of  ribbon.  "Be 
good  enough  to  look  at  those,"  she  said. 

Miss  Wynter  came  to  the  table  and  raised  the  two  ar- 
ticles in  her  hand  ;  there  was  nothing  but  blank  wonder 
in  her  face  ;  neither  fear  nor  dread,  but  simply  wonder. 
The  odor  of  violets  from  the  handkerchief  drew  her  atten- 
tion. 

"  Can  you  tell  me,"  said  her  grace,  "  to  whom  these  be- 
long?" 

"  They  are  mine,"  she  repUed  ;  "they  are  mine,  your 
grace." 

"  You  are  quite  sure;  there  is  no  mistake  ?" 

"I  am  quite  sure,  your  grace;  my  name  is  on  the  hand- 
kerchief, and  I  always  use  the  essence  of  violets." 

Poor  child !  all  the  rest  of  her  life  the  odor  of  violets 
turned  her  faint  and  ill — it  was  so  associated  with  the  hor« 
ror  of  this  hour. 


6  THE  DUEE'S  SEOBET. 

"  When,**  asked  the  duchess,  with  proud  severity,  "when 
did  you  wear  this  knot  of  ribbon  last  ?" 

"When?"  she  repeated.  "I  am  not  quite  sure,  your 
grace  ;     it  was  the  day  before  yesterday,  I  beUeve." 

Then  came  a  sudden  gleam  of  anxiety  in  the  blue  eyes, 
«nd  something  of  startled  fear. 

"They  are  yours,"  said  the  duchess.  "You  acknowl- 
edge it,  and  you  wore  that  knot  of  ribbon  two  days  since. 

"  Yes,  I  beUeve  so,"  was  the  faint  reply. 

*'  And  where  do  you  imagine.  Miss  Wynter,  these  things 
were  found  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know.     I  can  not  tell,  your  grace." 

"  Listen !  I  blush  to  tell  you  ;  the  shame  you  can  not 
feel  I  feel  for  you.  They  were  found  in  my  son's  room, 
in  Lord  St  Albans's  room — absolutely  found  there !  and 
you  must  know  what  that  impHes — it  imphes  your  pres- 
ence there.  Miss  Wynter." 

Pale,  scared,  her  lips  white,  her  eyes  all  troubled  and 
frightened,  the  girl  looked  up.  It  was  as  though  a 
blast  of  hot  wind  passed  over  a  dehcate  flower  and 
withered  it. 

"  I — I  do  not  understand,  your  grace,"  she  said,  her 
white  lips  trembling,  while  she  seemed  to  gasp  for  breath. 

"  I  wish  I  could  believe  you  ',  I  wish,  indeed,  that  you 
did  not  understand  me.  I  am  afraid  that  you  know  only 
too  well  aU  that  I  mean.  I  repeat  that  these  things  were 
found  in  my  son's  room,  and  that  their  presence  implies 
your  presence." 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  proud  scorn  and 
loathing  contempt  with  which  the  duchess  spoke  those 
words. 

The  white  lips  opened  again. 

"  What  room  ?     I— I—" 

Then  the  soimd  died  away. 

"  Do  not  waste  time  or  talent  in  inventing  excuses,"  said 
the  duchess.  "  You  admit,  I  presume,  that  your  room 
and  Lady  Nell's  are  in  the  eastern  wing;  you  will  admit 
also  that  Lord  St.  Albans's  rooms  are  at  the  other  end  of 
the  Castle,  in  the  queen's  wing." 

"  Yes,  I  admit  that.     Why  ?  " 

"That  is  sufficient,"  said  the  duchess.  "Now  explain 
to  me  why  articles  belonging  to  you  are  found  in  Lord 
Si  Albans's  stu(^r' 


THE  duke's  secret.  7 

She  could  hardly  hear  the  murmured  ansTver.  What 
was  the  girl  saying? — the  wind,  the  servants,  Lady  Nell 
roaming  all  over  the  Castle. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  the  duchess.  "What 
utter  nonsense!  Speak  the  truth.  How  came  these 
things  in  my  son's  room  ?" 

But  the  fright  and  panic  seemed  to  have  grown 
on  her  ;  her  whole  figure  trembled  like  a  leaf  in  a  strong 
wind. 

"  You  have  one  chance,"  said  the  duchess,  slowly,  "  I  do 
not  say  of  redeeming  yourself,  for  nothing  can  change 
my  opinion  of  you  now,  but  the  best  atonement  you  can 
make  to  me  is  to  tell  me  the  exact  truth." 

"I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  proud 
voice.  "  I  have  nothing,  not  one  word  to  say.  I  can  not 
understand.     May  I  go,  your  grace  ?" 

"No,"  said  the  duchess,  "you  may  not  go  ;  "and  since 
you  will  not  speak  yourseK,  I  will  speak  for  you.  My 
son's  suite  of  rooms  are  in  the  queen's  wing  ;  his  study, 
dressing-room  and  bath-room  are  near  them,  and  Sidonie, 
my  maid,  occasionally  enters  them  when  commissioned 
by  myself.  If  you  are  going  to  faint,  you  had  better 
take  a  chair. 

For  the  sweet  face  had  grown  white  as  with  a  pallor  of 
death,  and  one  trembhng  hand  clung  to  the  chair. 

"  Last  week,"  continued  the  duchess,  quite  regardless 
of  the  pain  and  suffering  on  that  fair  young  face,  "  I  had 
occasion  to  send  Sidonie  to  my  son's  study  quite  early 
in  the  morning.  She  brought  back  to  me  this  handker- 
chief marked  with  your  name.  She  found  it  in  thft 
middle  of  the  floor,  and  listen — I  was  there  myself  the 
last  thing  at  night,  and  I  am  quite  certain  it  was  not 
there  then  ;  it  would  not  have  escaped  my  observation. 
I  ask  how,  in  the  dead  of  night,  your  handkerchief  finds 
its  way  to  my  son's  room  ?" 

There  was  no  reply,  only  a  moan  from  the  white  lips. 

"  You  have  no  answer  to  give,"  said  the  duchess.  "  List- 
en again.  Two  days  since,  and  again  early  in  the  morn- 
ing, my  maid  had  to  go  to  my  son's  study,  and  there  she 
found  this  knot  of  ribbon,  which  you  recognize  as  your 
own,  and  which  she  recognized  as  having  seen  on  you. 
Again  I  had  been  in  this  room  the  night  before,  and  I  can 
certify  it  was  not  there.    It  is  easy  to  draw  a  certain  df- 


8  THE  duke's  SEOBET, 

duction  from  that.  I  ask  you,  can  you  explain  why  this 
knot  of  ribbon,  worn  by  you  two  days  since,  was  found 
on  the  floor  of  my  son's  room  on  the  night  of  the  same 
day  you  wore  it  ?    Have  you  any  answer  to  make  ?  " 

The  only  answer  was  a  moan. 

"  I  have  more  to  say,"  continued  the  duchess,  haughtily. 
"  I,  myself,  would  not  for  the  world  have  condescended  to 
do  that  which  my  maid  did.     Can  you  guess  what  it  is  ?  " 

No  answer,  only  a  more  deadly  pallor  round  the  young 
face. 

"She  was  determined  to  test  for  herself  the  truth  of 
her  suspicions,  and  she,  well,  I  am  a  woman,  and  such, 
words  come  strange  to  me — she  watched  you  last  night, 
you  yourself,  perhaps,  know  best  what  she  saw." 

The  girl  clasped  her  hands,  and  a  look  that  the  duchesa 
could  not  understand  came  into  her  face. 

"  I  must  ask  you  now,  and  I  insist  on  an  answer,  how 
long  have  you  been  in  the  habit  of  meeting  my  son,  Lord 
St.  Albans,  in  his  study,  alone,  and  when  all  the  rest  of  the 
household  slept  ?    How  long — answer  me  ?  " 

There  came  no  answer,  but  with  a  bitter  cry,  the  girl 
held  out  her  hands. 

"Hiive  pity  on  me,"  she  cried,  "I  have  not  one  word 
to  say." 

"  I  insist  upon  an  answer,"  said  the  duchess,  sternly. 
"  I  wiU  have  one  1 " 

But  again  the  girl  threw  up  her  hands  with  a  bitter 
cry. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  she  said.  "  Oh,  your  grace, 
believe  me,  I  have  not  one  word  to  say." 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  once  more  touched  the 
silver  gong  that  stood  on  the  table, 

"  Send  Sidonie  to  me  at  once,"  said  she. 

And  after  a  few  minutes  had  elapsed  the  Frenchwoman 
entered  the  room.  She  looked  quickly  from  the  tall, 
commanding  figure  of  her  grace,  to  the  slender,  trembliag 
form  of  the  young  girL 

"  Close  the  door,  Sidonie,"  said  her  grace,  and  the  maid 
complied  "  I  wish  you,"  said  the  duchess,  "  to  repeat 
before  Miss  Wynter  what  you  told  me  this  morning  and 
what  you  saw." 

An  expression  of  almost  gratified  malice  came  over  the 
dench  maid's  faoe.    It  was  just  possible  that  she,  who 


THE  duke's  BECRET.  9 

prideu  iier8elf  on  her  good  looks,  had  felt  some  pique 
that  the  handsome  young  marquis  had  never  noticed  her. 
A  swift,  terrible  light  came  into  her  eyes,  a  flash  of  te-i- 
lunph  brightened  her  face.  She  hated  with  an  intensity 
of  hatred  the  pale,  beautiful  girl  who  stood  trembling 
there. 

"  Let  us  have  no  additions,  no  exaggerations,  but  the 
plain  unvarnished  truth,"  said  the  duchess. 

Sidonie  was  nothing  loth  to  begin. 

"  I  will  obey,  your  grace,"  said  the  maid,  "  though  it 
i&— " 

The  duchess  held  up  her  hand. 

"  I  want  no  comments.  The  affair  has  nothing  to  do 
with  you,  does  not  concern  you.  State  simply  what  you 
know." 

The  maid  spoke  to  the  duchess,  but  her  eyes,  full  of 
baleful,  subtle  triumph  were  fixed  on  the  beautiful,  color- 
less face  of  the  young  girl. 

"  I  told  your  grace  a  week  since  that  I  was  sent  into 
my  lord's  study,  quite  early  in  the  morning,  and  there 
lying  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  where  it  was  quite  im- 
possible not  to  see  it,  I  found  this  handkerchief  worked 
with  Miss  "Wynter's  name;  wondering  how  it  came  there 
I  picked  it  up  and  brought  it  to  your  grace ;  that  is  it 
lying  on  the  table.  Two  mornings  since  I  went  again 
into  my  lord's  study,  and  found  this  knot  of  ribbon.  I 
had  seen  it  fastened  on  Miss  Wynter's  dress  the  evening 
previous,  when  I  took  your  grace's  message  to  Lady  Nell. 
That  I  also  brought  to  your  grace  and  it  lies  there  now." 

"The  rest,"  said  her  grace,  hating  the  woman  in  her  heart 
for  her  triumphant  look,  yet  compelled  to  take  her  evidence. 

"  The  rest,"  said  Sidonie,  with  affected  bashfulness.  "I 
—I— really— " 

The  duchess  looked  at  her  sternly. 

**  Will  you  keep  to  the  point,"  she  said,  or  I  will  dispense 
with  your  information." 

Sidonie  wore  a  most  coquettish  little  apron,  and  as  the 
duchess  spoke,  she  took  up  the  hem  and  began  to  examine 
it  minutely. 

"  Would  your  grace  forgive  me,  if  I  say  just  this — that 
in  what  I  did  I  was  actuated  by  good  nature  and  not  hj 
•uriogitj." 


10  THE  BTTEE^S  SECBBT. 

"  It  is  quite  immaterial,"  said  the  duchess,  loftily.  'Tout 
information,  not  your  motives,  interests  me." 

"  I  had  some  little  reason  for  thinking,  your  grace,  that 
all  was  not  quite  as  it  should  be.  I  could  not  understand 
■why  I  found  Miss  Wynter's  belongings  in  my  lord's  study, 
and  I  resolved  to  watch.  Last  night  every  one  retired 
early,  but  I  remained  in  the  small  anteroom  that  leads  to 
the  queen's  wing.  Soon  after  midnight  I  heard  sounds  of 
very  quick,  gentle  footsteps;  they  passed  the  door  and  went 
on  to  the  queen's  wing.  Then  I  followed  and  saw  Miss 
Wynter  walking  slowly  down  the  corridor  where  my  lord's 
study  is;  she  stopped  at  the  door  and  gave  a  peculiar  tap, 
which  I  knew  to  be  a  signal.  It  was  opened  and  she  went 
in.  For  two  hours  and  more,  yoiir  grace,  I  heard  the  sound 
of  two  voices  talking  incessantly;  I  was  quite  determined 
to  see  the  result  of  it,  and  I  waited  until  Miss  Wynter  came 
from  the  study  and  went  to  her  own  room;  it  was  after  two 
o'clock  and  she  was  carrying  a  thin,  white  taper.  She 
seemed  frightened  and  uneasy  while  she  was  in  the  queen's 
wing,  but  when  she  came  to  the  east  wing,  she  was  quite 
at  her  ease,  and  did  not  take  any  precautions  to  conceal 
herself.  She  went  to  her  own  room,  your  grace,  and  I 
heard  her  draw  the  bolt  of  her  door.  The  first  thing  this 
morning  I  came  to  tell  your  grace  what  I  had  seen  and 
heard." 

"  You  hear,  Miss  Wynter,  what  Sidonie  says.  Have  you 
anything  to  say?" 

The  white  lips  parted  and  the  word  that  came  from  them 
sounded  like  "  pity." 

"It  is  a  case  for  justice,  not  pity,"  said  the  duchess. 
"  Now,  in  the  presence  of  the  person  who  has  brought  the 
charge  against  you,  I  ask  you  is  it  true,  or  is  it  not  ?  One 
word  from  you  will  suffice.  '  Yes,'  or  'No.'  Is  it  true  or 
not?" 

The  duchess  stood  with  haughty,  upraised  head;  the 
maid  with  the  subtle  light  of  triumph  in  her  ©yes;  and 
the  girl  sank  slowly  to  her  knees. 

"  I  have  not  one  word  to  say,  your  grace,  not  one  word." 

But  there  was  no  pity  in  the  heart  of  the  proud  lady 
who  had  been  wounded  where  she  trusted  most;  bitter, 
scathing  contempt  was  in  her  look  and  manner. 

"I  have  told  you,  Naomi  Wynter,  that  I  will  have  the 
troth  from  your  own  lips,  yes  or  no.     I  have  liked  and 


THE  duke's  SECBET.  U 

trusted  you  so  much  that  if  you  deny  this  I  shall  deem 
your  denial  as  worthy  of  credit  as  the  word  of  your 
accuser,  or  even  with  the  evidence  against  you.  If  you 
can  clear  yourself,  do;  but  the  truth,  whatever  it  may  be, 
I  will  have.  My  son  has  always  been  distinguished  for 
his  honorable,  sensitive,  delicate  conduct,  for  purity  and 
goodness  of  hie  life.  When  I  find  that  he  has  been  hold- 
ing secret  meetings  with  you,  I,  his  mother,  insist  upon 
knowing  how  and  why.  Once  more,  in  the  presence  of 
the  person  who  has  accused  you,  I  ask,  can  you  deny  or 
explain  what  she  says?" 

"I  have  nothing  to  say,  your  grace,"  she  sobbed,  not 
one  word." 

"  You  can  go,  Sidonie,"  said  the  duchess.  "  Tou  have 
acquitted  yourself  of  your  duty  ;  take  care  that  no  word 
of  what  you  know  escapes  your  lips." 

"  Your  grace  can  be  assured  of  my  fidelity,"  replied 
Sidonie,  who  flattered  herself  that  she  had  made  one  great 
stroke  of  her  life  that  day. 

She  quitted  the  room,  and  the  duchess  was  left  with 
the  weeping  girl  alone. 

"  5fou  are  young,"  said  her  grace,  "so  young,  that  lam 
will/ng,  nay,  anxious,  to  believe  that  you  have  been 
merely  imprudent.  You  cannot  have  been  so  mad  or  so 
blind  as  to  believe  that  Lord  St.  Albans  had  any  intention 
of  marrying  you;  that  would  be  the  only  reason,  wild  and 
improbable  as  it  seems,  the  only  reason  that  would  at  all 
excuse  your  conduct.  Have  you  been  trying  to  allure 
my  son?    Answer  me." 

But  there  was  no  answer,  and  the  duchess  seemed  more 
and  more  incensed. 

"  Unless  you  make  a  free  and  frank  acknowledgment  to 
me,  I  shall  confront  you  with  my  son.  I  will  know  whether 
it  is  he  who  has  sought  you  or  you  who  have  sougbt  him. 
I  promise  you  this,  that  if  you  will  trust  me  and  tell  me,  I 
Will  be  your  friend — I  will  give  you  the  best  advice  I  can, 
and  I  will  help  you  to  get  away  from  here.  Now  tell  me 
the  best  or  the  worst." 

'•  I  have  neither  to  tell,  your  grace,"  she  replied. 
"You  have  been  seen  to  enter  my  son's  study  when  you 
ought  to  have  been  asleep.    Will  you  tell  jne  what  took 
you  there?" 
*1~I  cMi  not,"  slie  eQbb«4* 


12  THE  DUEE^S  SEOBEf. 

"Tou  do  not  attempt  after  Sidonie's  evidence  to  deny 
it.  A  denial,  out  of  her  presence,  would  be  nothing  unless 
you  repeated  it  while  she  was  here.  Is  there  any  one  thing 
you  can  say  which  will  in  any  way  exculpate  you,  clear 
you,  explain  yoiir  conduct?  I  shall  be  glad  to  hear  any- 
thing." 

There  was  still  the  same  answer;  she  had  not  one  word 
to  say — not  one. 

"You  are  obstinate  and  obdurate,"  said  the  duchess.  "I 
had  hoped  better  things  of  you.  I  can  make  no  appeals 
to  your  reason.  Have  you  any  feeling?  If  so,  I  will  ap- 
peal to  that.  Do  you  know  how  I  have  loved  my  son,  how 
proud  I  have  been  of  him?  He  has  been  the  very  joy  of 
my  heart.  In  his  hands  are  vested  the  interests  of  the 
noblest  race  of  England.  Have  you  no  pity,  no  sorrow, 
no  feeling  for  the  mother  of  such  a  son?  Have  you  no 
compassion  for  the  wound  you  are  inflicting  on  me? 
Because  you  have  a  fair  face,  are  you  trying  to  allure  and 
cajole  my  son  into  marrying  you?  If  so,  you  will  fail.  I 
Bay  it  in  all  the  bittemes  of  heart,  but  it  is  the  perfect 
truth,  I  would  sooner  see  my  son  dead  than  married  to 
you — dead,  you  hear — and  yet  I  love  him  better  than  my 
life.  Think,  then,  how  great  my  horror  and  aversion  to 
8uch  a  marriage  is." 

From  tho  pale  lips  of  the  desolate  girl  came  a  cry  that 
would  have  touched  any  heart  less  proud  and  cold  than 
bers. 

"Ah,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  deep-drawn  breath; 
•*it  is  then  as  I  feared — or  rather  expected  ;  it  is  no  ques- 
tion of  marriage,  but  of  an  imprudent  acquaintance.  You 
are  both  young  and  have  probably  fancied  it  was  very 
sentimental  and  romantic  to  get  up  this  flirtation  together. 
I  am  willing  to  give  you  credit  for  most  perfect  inno- 
cence, and  nothing  worse  than  a  foolish  disregard  for 
appearance — ^is  it  so  ?  Set  my  mind  at  ease — tell  me  the 
worst  or  the  best." 

"I  have  nothing — 1  can  tell  nothing,"  said  the  girL 
*'  Oh,  your  grace,  have  pity  on  me,  I  am  so  lonely  and  so 
young," 

"  Old  enough,"  said  the  duchess,  "  to  set  a  trap  for  my 
eon.  I  coiild  sooner  bear  that  than  your  obstinate  silence. 
If  you  are  guilty,  tell  me — it  will  be  better  than  defying 
me.    If  you  are  iimQce&t,  tell  uxq,  wd  I  will  be  youi:  beet 


mS  DIjKH'B  SSOBX&  Ifi 

feiencL    Oil,  my  son,  thp.!.  I  should  be  brought  thus  lo^ 

by  your  ioliy." 

The  pain  and  passion  of  the  words  touched  the  heart 
of  her  listener.     The  girl  sobbed  aioud. 

"  "Will  you  do  this  much  for  me  t'  said  the  duchess — 
""Will  you  set  my  mind  at  ease,  and  tell  me  if  I  have  any- 
thing to  dread?" 

Still  no  answer  and  the  silence  angered  the  duchess. 

"Tou  are  obdui-ate,"  she  repeated,  "but  I  will  find 
means  to  make  you  speak.  I  will  see  what  power  the  law 
gives  me  over  you." 

The  white  face  grew  even  more  ghastly  as  the  duchess 
once  more  touched  the  silver  gong.  When  it  was  answered 
she  asked  that  the  duke  should  be  told  at  once  that  she 
wanted  to  see  him. 

A  few  minutes  of  terrible  suspense,  and  then  the  foot- 
man returned. 

The  girl  shrunk  as  the  door  opened  But  it  was  the 
servant,  not  the  d'lke,  who  entered.  His  grace  had  gone 
out,  and  could  not  be  found. 

"  I  wiU  not  be  baffled,"  cried  the  duchess;  "  I  will  know 
the  truth;  I  will  force  it  from  you.  Are  you  so  hard  of 
heart,  so  obstinate,  so  fooHsh  as  to  compel  me  to  force  it 
from  my  own  son  ?  If  there  be  any  sense  of  girlish  mod* 
-ssty  left  in  you,  let  me  hear  it  from  you," 

She  saw  tibiis  young  gui  raise  her  pale,  bewildered  face; 
ehe  heard  her  cry 

'.'  What  shall  I  do — what  shall  I  do  or  say  ?  " 

"Tell  me  the  truth;"  said  the  duchess;  "I  want  no 
more.     Will  you,  or  will  you  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  she  cried;  "  I  have  nothing  to 
say." 

"Then  I  shall  send  for  my  son,"  said  the  duchess,  "and 
the  truth  you  will  not  teU  me,  he  shall." 

She  started,  for  the  girl  was  kneeling  at  her  feet,  pray- 
ing as  she  had  never  prayed,  imploring,  pleading  as 
though  for  dear  life. 

'*  Send  me  away,  your  grace — send  me  to  death,  if  you 
will,  but  don't  let  me  see  him,"  she  cried. 

"  That  is  my  decision,"  said  the  duchess.  "  If  you  will 
tell  me  the  truth,  you  shall  go  away  at  once  and  no  harm 
shall  come  of  it,  but  if  you  refuse  you  shall  b^  confronted 
with  my  son.     Take  your  choice." 


14  mE  DITKE^S  SECItlSf. 

She  fell  VFith  her  face  on  the  ground,  crying  oat: 

"I  have  no  choice — Heaven  help  me — no  choico.  I 
have  nothing  to  say." 

The  duchess  stood  for  one  minute,  her  white  hands 
hovering  over  the  bell ;  the  minute  passed,  she  touched 
it ;  and  this  time  it  was  to  send  for  her  son. 

Lord  St.  Albans  looked  up  with  an  air  of  lively  impa- 
tience when  he  was  told  that  her  grace  awaited  him  in 
her  boudoir,  where  she  wished  to  see  him  at  once.  If 
the  young  lord  disliked  one  place  more  than  another,  it 
was  that  boudoir  where  his  stately  mother  was  accustomed 
to  dehver  all  her  lectures — he  could  remember  hundreds 
of  scoldings  administered  there.  A  summons  to  the  bou- 
doir meant  always  a  lecture  of  some  kind  or  other,  and 
was  always  received  by  him  with  the  greatest  dissatis- 
faction. 

He  was  a  bright,  handsome,  clever  young  man,  but, 
strange  to  say,  he  was  still  afraid  of  his  stately,  handsome 
mother.  He  had  always  managed  the  duke  ;  in  fact, 
these  two  had  entered  upon  an  alliance  against  the  ruling 
spirit  of  the  household.  They  never  openly  rebelled 
against  her  grace,  but  when  she  was  what  the  duke  called 
more  active  than  usual,  they  enjoyed  a  comfortable  groan 
together. 

In  all  his  childish  escapades  his  kind-hearted,  indulgent 
father  was  his  confidant  and  helper :  the  duke  had  never 
taken  on  himself  the  serious  responsibility  of  scolding  his 
son;  it  was  her  grace — always  her  grace — and  the  young 
marquis  had  a  constitutional  dislike  to  scolding.  He  was 
brave  enough;  he  would  always  have  turned  his  face  to 
the  foe;  he  would  not  avoid  danger,  for  he  loved  it.  He 
was  a  bold  rider  and  a  fearlesss  shot,  an  excellent  hunter 
— ^he  mounted  horses  that  brave  men  shrunk  from — ^ho 
tad  the  courage  of  his  race,  grand,  bold,  fearless — and  it 
never  failed  him  but  once  in  his  life.  Yet,  despite  all  his 
courage,  his  high,  mettlesome  spirit,  his  reckless  courting 
of  danger,  he  still  retained  a  fear  and  awe  of  his  mother. 
The  sword  of  a  foe,  the  mouth  of  a  cannon,  the  roar  of  an 
on-coming  army  would  never  have  dismayed  him;  but  be- 
fore the  fK)wn  of  the  duchess  he  fled  ignominiously. 

History  tells  us  how  the  bravest  generals,  the  highest 
kings,  the  greatest  warriors,  who  have  feared  nothing  else 
In  ti^eir  lives,  have  been  afraid  of  their  own  wives.    Th« 


THE  duke's  secret.  '  IS 

young  Lord  St.  Albans  was  afraid  of  his  mother — he  wouLl 
haved  faced  a  foe  with  his  sword  drawn  with  a  thousantt 
times  more  courage  than  he  faced  his  mother  when  aim 
was  angry  with  Lim. 

"  The  boudoir,  Simmons  ?"  he  cried,  impatiently  to  the 
servant;  "  you  are  quite  sure  her  grace  said  the  boudoir?" 

"  Quite,  my  lord,"  repHed  the  man,  calmly,  with  an  ap- 
preciative inkling  of  what  was  wrong;  "  her  grace  is  wait- 
ing there  now." 

"  I  must  go  then,"  he  said  ruefully  to  himself.  "  Now  I 
wonder  what  is  wrong— what  have  I  done?  Have  1 
smoked  in  the  wrong  rooms — have  I  used  language  of  too 
expressive  a  kind — have  I  failed  in  something,  or  have  I 
exceeded  in  anything  ?  It  is  not  that — ah,  thank  Heaven, 
it  is  not  that." 

He  did  not  hurry,  although  the  servant  told  him  thai 
her  grace  was  .waiting. 

There  was  profound  silence  when  he  reached  the 
boudoir;  he  fancied,  but  it  must  be  fancy,  that  he  heard 
the  sound  of  some  one  weeping  as  if  in  bitter  pain. 

He  stood  quite  still  when  he  entered  the  room  and  saw 
the  tableau  before  him — the  duchess  in  an  attitude  of 
haughty  grace — indignant  pride,  scorn,  contempt,  loath- 
ing, all  in  her  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?"  was  his  first  thought,  when  ha 
saw  her.  Then  his  eyes  went  on  to  the  second  figure  in 
the  group,  and  he  saw  the  young  girl,  with  her  beautiful, 
colorless  face  bent  to  the  ground.  Then  he  knew,  and  the 
shock  made  him  stop  abruptly,  and  blanched  his  handsome 
young  face,  on  which  stood  all  the  proud,  defiant  beauty 
of  his  race. 

"  I  have  sent  for  you,  Bertrand,"  said  her  grace,  "  on  the 
most  unpleasant  business  I  have  ever  known  in  my  life." 
The  young  lord  groaned  aloud — how  well  he  knew  the 
preamble,  but  this  time  it  was  more  terrible  than  ever. 
"  Not  only  the  most  unpleasant,  but  the  most  heart-rend- 
ing." 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  Let  us  get  at  it  at  once  if  you 
will  be  so  kind.  What  is  the  matter,  the  preliminaries 
are  very  dreadful." 

"  This  is  the  matter,"  she  replied,  pointing  with  a 
haughty  gesture  to  the  articles  on  the  table.  "  These 
things   belong   to   this — this  young  person,"  said  Hm 


16  THE  DUEE'S  SEOBET. 

duchess,  iaener  lost  for  a  term,  "and  I  regret- —I  grieTe  to 
Bay,  they  have  been  found  in  your  study." 

He  was  brave,  but  when  his  mother  uttered  those  words 
in  her  hardest  voice,  with  her  coldest  looks,  he  was  afraid; 
his  lips  grew  pale,  and  the  defiant  Hght  died  out  of  his  face. 

"  How  do  you  account  for  their  presence  there  ?  "  asked 
the  duchess.  "  It  is  a  most  bitter  aud  cruel  shame  for 
any  mother  to  have  to  conduct  such  an  investigation; 
above  all  for  the  mother  of  a  son  who  should  be  a  noble 
man  in  more  than  name.  Bertrand,  I  never  thought  thai 
I  should  blush  for  you." 

He  was  ill  at  ease,  but  he  tried  to  assume  a  carelessness 
he  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  My  dearest  mother,"  he  said,  "  you  must  not  waste 
blushes;  you  must  wait  first  to  see  if  I  have  provoked  any.** 

He  never  forgot  the  air  of  dignity  and  command  with 
which  she  turned  to  him. 

"  The  matter  on  which  I  have  to  speak  to  you,"  she 
said,  "is  so  serious  that  I  would  rather  see  you  dead 
than  know  you  guilty,  and  the  most  terrible,  the  most 
guilty  part  of  it  s^  would  be  to  me  that  you  should  laugh 
at  it.  I  repeat  my  question,  but  beg  you  vdll  answer  H 
seriously.     How  came  these  things  in  your  room  ?  " 

He  looked  anxiously  at  the  girl's  face  ;  it  was  so  whiter 
so  stni,  she  might  have  been  dead. 

"  I  really  can't  tell,  mother,"  he  continued.  "  I  am  noi 
accountable  for  things  found  in  my  room." 

"Would  you  insinuate  that  this  young  giii  entered 
your  room  in  your  absence  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  insinuate  nothing,  mother,"  he  replied,  "  nothing 
at  alL  It  is  simply  impossible  that  I  can  answer  your 
question.     I  can  say  no  more." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  that  I  know  more.  If  I  could  have 
spared  you  the  humiliation  of  this  scene,  I  would  have 
done  so.  I  asked  this  unfortunate  girl  to  save  herself 
and  me  the  shame  of  it,  but  she  refused  ;  and  had  she 
complied  with  my  wish  I  should  have  been  spared  the 
anguish  of  having  to  speak  to  my  only  son  on  a  subject 
that  humiliates  both  of  us.  You  refuse,  then,  to  tell  me 
how  those  came  in  joxir  room?" 

She  did  not  see  the  look  of  gratitude  and  relief  that  h« 
sent  to  the  girl  crouching  befora  her.  She  could  not  teU 
how  in  his  heart  he  blessed  her. 


^  THE  duke's  SEOBET.  17 

! 

"All  evasions,"  said  the  duchess,  "are  quite  nselesa 
TTnf  ortunately,  this  unhappy  and  most  imprudent  girl  has 
been  seen  going  to  your  study  after  midnight ;  she  was 
heard  speaking  to  you  for  more  than  two  hours,  and  she 
was  seen  returning  to  her  own  room.  Can  you  denj 
that,  Bertrand?" 

"  I  neither  deny  nor  affirm,"  he  replied. 

"  The  one  thing  I  insist  upon  is  perfect  truth,"  said  the 
duchess.  "  If  you  will  either  of  you  tell  me  that,  I  will 
be  content.  I  must  know  what  has  passed  between  you, 
the  young  girl  under  my  charge,  and  my  only  son,  on 
whose  shoulders  lie  the  burden  of  the  honors  of  my  race." 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  bitterness  with  which 
she  uttered  these  words.  Lord  St.  Albans  winced  under 
the  scornful  look  and  voice. 

"  I  am  not  hard  of  heart,"  she  continued.  "  If  you  trust 
me,  I  will  befriend  you  both,  and  help  you  out  of  this 
dilemma;  but  if  you  conceal  the  truth  from  me,  I  shall 
have  Httle  mercy  on  either.  Tell  me  the  truth — is  it  a 
foolish,  harmless,  absurd  flirtation  which  you  have  both 
been  mad  and  bHnd  enough  to  think  romantic,  or  is  it 
worse  than  that  ?  Has  my  son  taken  advantage  of  his 
position  and  rank  as  a  so-called  gentleman  to  lead  astray 
ahelpless,fooHsh,  senseless  girl,  or  are  either  of  you  so 
mad  as  to  have  dreamed  that  a  marriage  would  ever  be  per- 
mitted between  you  ?  I  express  myself  moderately  when  I 
say  that  1  would  rather  see  Rood  Castle  burned  to  the 
ground  than  so  cruelly,  wickedly,  horribly  profaned  by 
the  one  who  should  keep  its  honor  intact.  Speak,  my 
son,  clear  not  only  yourself  but  the  fair  fame  of  this  young 
girl;  it  rests  in  your  hands  to  do  so." 

She  had  risen  at  the  last  words,  and  turned  her  fair, 
0ad  face  to  him. 

It  was  the  saddest  and  most  pitiful  sight,  the  beautiful 
loving  eyes  filled  with  tears,  the  sweet  mouth  quivering. 
When  he  saw  her,  the  young  lord  made  one  hasty  step  as 
though  he  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms,  then  the  ex- 
pression of  his  mother's  face  made  him  pause  abruptly. 

"  Bertrand,  on  the  obedience  you  owe  me,  I  insist  upon 
the  truth  I "  said  the  duchess. 

The  fair,  pleading  face  turned  to  him  with  an  agonizec* 
gleam  of  mute  appeal ;  his  fell  before  it,  and  then  a  kind 
of  supernatural  strength  and  courage  c£ane  to  her.     H» 


18  THE  duke's  SECEET. 

stood,  irresolute,  hesitating  with  half  determiiiati&n,  half 
weakness  on  his  face.     She  went  up  to  the  angry  duchess. 

"Do  not  blame  him,  your  grace  ;  do  not  «ay  one  angry 
word  to  him.    It  is  I  alone  who  am  to  blame." 

He  raised  his  hand  with  a  deprecating  gesture,  but  the 
girl  went  on  with  renewed  courage  : 

"It  is  not  his  fault,  your  grace  ;  it  is  mine — all  mine." 

**  What  is  your  fault  ?  "  she  asked,  sharply. 

"It  was  I,  your  grace,  who  volunteered  last  night  to 
go  to  his  study.  I  declare  to  you  that  he  did  not  ask 
me." 

"  Is  that  true,  Bertrand  ?  "  asked  the  duchess. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  in  a  very  uneasy,  shfune- 
faced  manner. 

"  If  the  lady  says  so,  mother,  it  would  ill  become  me  to 
contradict  her."  But  he  did  not  look  at  the  lady  as  he 
spoke. 

"  You  shameless  girl,"  cried  the  duchess.  The  vials  of 
her  wrath  were  emptied  now  on  the  girl's  defenseless 
head.  "  You  shameless,  wicked  girl ! "  she  cried.  "  You 
thought,  because  your  face  was  fair,  you  could  allure  my 
son  to  destruction.  You  sought  him — you  confess  it — 
you  glory  in  it.  I  thank  God  that  you  have  been  un- 
masked in  time  before  my  son  is  ruined." 

He  stood  by,  uneasily  moving  first  one  foot  and  then 
the  other. 

"  Come,  mother,"  he  said,  "  be  a  little  more  merciful 
You  do  not  know,  after  all,  whether  this  is  true  or  not. 
Do  you  not  think  it  very  generous  of  her  to  take  the 
whole  burden  on  herself  ?  " 

"I  think,"  said  the  duchess,  terribly  angry  at  the 
thought  that  he  was  taking  her  part,  "  I  think  she  is  a 
shameless  girl,  and  she  quits  the  Castle  this  hour  in  black, 
bitter  disgrace.  Every  man  is  more  or  less  weak  in  a 
woman's  hands  ;  but  if  I  thought  you  had  encoui'aged  her 
folly  and  her  wickedness,  I  would  see  that  your  fault  was 
severely  punished.  So  far  as  I  am  concerned,  I  would  make 
an  example  of  you^  Bertrand.  You,  who  ought  to  be  a 
nobleman,  why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  the  girl's  forward- 
ness and  folly?" 

The  sweet  face  was  looking  into  his.  There  was  no 
reproach  in  it  but  simple  wondering  pain ;  the  eyes 
naked  mm  a  (question,  the  Hps  were  dumb> 


THE  DUKE*S  SECRET.  19 

•*  I#et  it  be  a  warning  to  you,  Bertrand.  Only  think,  if 
this  girl's  folly  were  known,  of  the  cruel  blow  to  your 
character  and  reputation.  To  think  that  the  duke's  heir 
and  only  son  should  have  been  imperiled  by  the  mad, 
bold  folly  of  a  love-sick  girl." 

Naomi  started  as  though  stung  oy  the  lash  of  a  whip  ; 
the  color  rushed  in  a  burning  flood  over  her  face  and 
neck  ;  her  lips  parted,  as  though  she  would  fain  speak ; 
then  suddenly  she  grew  quiet  and  calm — quiet,  but  with 
those  sweet,  sad  eyes  fixed  on  his  face. 

"You  know  what  I  think  of  you,  Naomi  "Wynter,"  said 
the  duchess,  and  the  girl  turned  with  clasped  hands  to  the 
young  lord.     They  said,  more  clearly  than  words  could  do: 

"I  api)eal,  in  this  my  last  extremity,  to  you !" 

liord  St.  Albans  looked  entreatingly  at  his  mother. 

"I  think  you  are  too  hard,"  he  said. 

But  the  duchess  interrupted  him. 

"Do  not  speak  on  the  matter,  Bertrand ;  I  will  not  have 
it.  I  am  not  too  hard.  If,  when  people  see  wrong,  they 
wovdd  speak  out  plainly,  as  I  have  done  now,  the  world 
would  not  be  one  half  so  wicked  as  it  is — not  one  half.  I 
have  no  sympathy  with  the  mad  folly  of  a  love  sick  girl — 
a  girl  bold  and  forward  enough  to  visit,  as  I  understand, 
unasked  and  unsolicited,  the  study  of  a  young  man  like 
you.     If  this  be  the  girl,  what  will  the  woman  be  like  ?" 

Again  he  tried  to  stop  her,  to  say  that  she  was  too  hard, 
too  angry,  unjust,  severe.  But  the  anger  of  the  duchess 
was  roused  now,  and  who  should  keep  it  under  control? 

"  I  can  not  understand,"  she  continued,  "how  Miss  Gra- 
ham could  send  such  a  person  to  me ;  it  is  more  than  enough 
to  ruin  her  forever.  I  shall  write  and  tell  her  what  I 
think  about  it." 

The  pleading,  weeping  eyes  were  still  fixed  on  Lord  St. 
Albans'  face,  the  white  hands  clasped  in  trembling  suppli- 
cation that  he  understood,  and  no  other. 

"  You  leave  my  house  to-day — nay,  this  very  hour.  Miss 
Wynter,  and  you  do  as  you  can.  Do  not  send  to  me  for 
any  character,  for  I  should  speak  the  truth  of  you,  and 
declare  you  to  be  what  I  know — a  shameless,  forward,  dan- 
gerous girl.  I  should  warn  the  mother  of  every  son  about 
you,  therefore  you  will  have  the  good  sense  not  to  appeal 
to  me,  or  apply  to  me;  and  I  shall  warn  Miss  Graham 
against  jovu" 


90  THE  DUKES  SECRET. 

Then  the  fair  face,  with  a  faint  flush,  was  tumea  to 
her. 

"  Supposing  that  I  was  the  most  wicked,  do  you  think 
it  womanly  or  Christianlike  to  turn  me  adrift  into  the  wide 
world,  and  take  from  me  my  only  chance  of  employment — 
take  from  me  the  only  fortune  I  have  in  the  world — my 
good  character?" 

"I  deny,"  said  the  duchess,  "that  you  have  a  good  char- 
acter.' To  speak  quite  plainly — and  it  seems  to  me  that 
you  understand  the  plainest  language — after  what  my  maid 
saw  last  evening,  I  do  not  think  you  have  any  character  at 
aU." 

If  she  had  struck  that  fair,  sweet  face,  the  girl  could  not 
have  winced  more  than  she  did. 

"That,  after  deliberately  doing  that  which  you  must 
know  would  take  away  any  girl's  character,  to  speak  as 
though  I  were  doing  you  an  injury  or  injustice,  is  the  most 
absiird  thing  I  have  heard  in  my  hfe,"  said  the  duchess, 
scornfully.  "  You  have  lost  your  character,  so  I  can  not 
be  said  to  have  taken  it  from  you." 

With  a  wild  cry — a  cry  that,  proud  as  she  was,  the 
duchess  never  forgot — the  girl  looked  up  at  Lord  St. 
Albans. 

"I  appeal  to  you,"  slie  siifd;  " I  appeal  to  3'ou!" 

But  the  appeal  was  all  in  vain.  He  looked  very  uncom- 
fortable, very  uneasy;  but  if  he  knew  that  which  could 
exculpate  her,  or  explain  away  the  appearances  which  were 
BO  much  against  her,  he  kept  it  to  himself. 

"My  dearest  mother,"  he  said,  "be  a  little  more  gentle, 
a  little  more  moderate."  Then,  turning  with  an  embar- 
rassed face  to  Naomi  'VVynier,  he  said  :  "  It  will  come  all 
right — ^you  know  it  "will  all  come  right." 

Those  words  angered  the  duchess  greatly. 

"The  right  issue  of  it  remains  with  me,  and  not  with 
you,"  she  said,  haughtily.  '■  It  will  be  right  thus  far — 
that  from  this  hour  Naomi  Wynter  takes  her  place  with 
one  of  two  classes,  the  wicked  or  the  fooHsh." 

And  again  the  girl,  with  a  wild  cry,  raised  her  hands  in 
supplication. 

"You  hear  this,"  she  said;  "you  hear  these  cruel  words. 
I  appeal  to  you,  Lord  St.  Albans,  I  appeal  to  you !" 
And  again  it  was  utterly  in  vain. 

**!  am  dreadfully  sorry  that  all  thig  has  happcaad,"  lUh 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET,  Si 

said;  "I  could  not  feel  more  sorry  than  I  do;  but  you 
know  it  will  bo  all  right." 

The  repetition  of  these  words  seemed  to  not  only  irri- 
tate the  duchess,  but  to  cause  her  most  serious  annoyance 
and  anxiety. 

"  I  should  like  to  know,  Bertrand,"  she  said,  "  what  you 
mean  by  all  being  right.  I  can  not  say  that  I  see  much 
cause  for  believing  that.     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Miss  "Wynter  knows  what  I  mean,"  he  repHed,  looking 
significantly  at  the  young  girl.     Her  only  answer  was: 

"  Is  my  appeal  in  vain  ?" 

And  then  his  face  darkened.  The  girl  ttimed  away  with 
an  expression  of  utter  black  despair. 

She  went  nearer  to  the  duchess,  and  a  certain  girlish 
dignity  came  to  her.     She  stood  erect  before  her. 

"  Your  grace  quite  understands,"  she  said.  "  Tour  son 
is  free  from  all  blame.  It  is  quite  true  that  I  went  to  his 
study  last  evening  on  my  own  responsibility,  and  without 
the  least  invitation  or  suggestion  from  him — that  is  per- 
fectly true  of  last  night.  You  will  be  good  enough  to 
remember  always,  that  I — whom  you  have  accused  so 
bitterly — I  acquit  him,  freely,  entirely,  and  that  whatever 
blame  or  shame  or  disgrace  there  is,  I  charge  myself  with 
it,  and  free  him;  I  take  the  burden  of  it  all." 

"As  is  only  just  and  right,"  said  the  duchess.  "  If  girla 
will  make  themselves  light  of  worth — if  they  will,  in  plain 
English,  run  after  men,  they  must  put  up  with  the  conse- 
quences to  themselves. ' 

The  girl  bowed  her  head;  her  fear  and  timidity  had 
forsaken  her;  there  was  a  greater  dignity  about  her,  that, 
even  in  the  inidst  of  her  anger,  struck  the  duchess  forcibly. 

"  There  is  no  more  to  be  said,"  she  continued.  "  You 
have  accused  yourself,  Naomi  Wynter,  and  I  am  glad  to 
find  my  son  guiltless." 

Yet,  as  she  spoke,  she  was  full  of  wonder  at  the  sight  of 
his  face.  He  did  not  look  particularly  guiltless  or  happy, 
but  dreadfully  confused  and  ashamed;  more  than  once  he 
seemed  on  the  point  of  speaking,  of  saying  something, 
then  stopped  abruptly. 

He  looked  very  much  more  hke  a  picture  of  guilt  than 
did  the  fair-faced  girl  who  stood  now  in  all  the  calmness 
of  despair.  There  was  hesitation,  confusion,  ab<>iae  oo 
bis  iacei  plaiiilj  writeu  there. 


SI  THE  DUKE^S  SEGBET. 

*  Naomi  Wynter,"  said  the  duchess,  and  neither  in  tone 
or  manner  was  there  the  least  vestige  of  pity,  "  I  do  not 
know  what  has  passed  between  my  son  and  you;  if  you 
have  been  blind  enough  and  mad  enough  to  care  for  him, 
your  punishment  will  be  quite  sufficient.  Look  your  last 
upon  his  face  now,  for  you  will  never  see  him  again.  Say 
good-bye  in  my  presence,  for  you  shall  meet  on  earth  no 
more." 

Once  again  she  raised  her  face  in  mute  agonized  sup- 
plication to  his,  but  there  was  no  response.  He  held  oui 
his  hand  to  her  with  a  shamefaced,  embarrassed  manner; 
he  did  not  say  good-bye,  nor  did  he  keep  his  hand  in  hers. 

No  word  came  from  her  lips  but  this  one: 

"  Forever,"  she  said,  then  she  turned  from  him. 

"  Tou  can  go  now,  Bertrand,"  said  the  duchess.  "  Miss 
Wynter  leaves  at  once,  and  there  is  no  further  occasion 
for  your  presence." 

Still  he  lingered,  not  looking  now  at  his  angry,  indig- 
nant mother;  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fair  face  to  be  raised 
to  his  in  supplication  never  more.  He  went  a  step  nearer 
to  her,  then  turned  back,  opened  his  lips  to  speak  to  her, 
and  then  closed  them,  for  no  sound  came. 

"  You  can  go,"  repeated  the  duchess. 

Their  eyes  met  once  ;  into  his  came  a  flame  of  anger 
into  hers  came  a  shadow  like  death;  then,  with  a  low  bow 
to  his  mother.  Lord  St.  Albans  quitted  the  room. 

"  You  have  reproached  me,"  said  the  duchess,  *'  with 
sending  you  adrift  into  the  wide  world.  You  shall  not  have 
cause  to  complain.  I  will  give  you  a  year's  salai'y,  and 
you  must  do  the  best  you  can." 

The  girl  bowed  her  head  in  silence.  The  duchess  went 
to  the  writing-table,  and  taking  out  a  roll  of  bank-notes 
placed  five  in  her  hands. 

"There  are  fifty  poiinds,"  she  SEdd;  "now  sign  a  receipt 
for  it" 

But  the  trembling  hands  could  shape  no  letters;  the  ef- 
fort was  in  vain;  the  receipt  was  never  signed.  Once  more 
and  for  the  last  time  during  that  interview,  the  duchess 
touched  the  silver  gong. 

"  Send  Sidonie  to  me,"  she  said,  "  at  once,"  and  again 
the  Frenchwoman  entered  with  the  subtle,  cruel,  victori- 
ous smile. 

**Si4p»ie»'*  said  the  duchess,  "you  do  not  leave  Misi 


THE  duke's  seceet.  23 

Wynter  again  while  she  is  in  the  house.  Ton  go  to  her 
room  with  her,  help  her  to  pack  up,  send  for  the  pony- 
carriage,  see  her  safely  in  it,  and  take  her  to  the  station. 
Do  not  lose  sight  of  her  for  one  moment  while  she  remains 
in  the  Castle." 

"  I  will  not,  your  grace,"  said  the  maid,  delighted  with 
the  task. 

"  Good-bye,  Naomi  "Wynter,"  said  the  duchess  ;  "  and 
I  hope  your  first  step,  if  it  really  be  your  first  step  on  the 
Wroug  road,  may  be  your  last.     Go  with  Sidonie." 

Without  a  word,  or  even  a  glance,  in  the  direction  of 
that  proud  face  and  figure,  Naomi  went  away. 

The  duchess  flung  herself  down  into  her  chair. 

"  What  a  scene !  "  she  said  to  herself ;  "  and  to  think 
that  I  should  have  had  to  speak  in  this  fashion  to  my  own 
son !     I  shall  never  get  over  it." 

Not  a  thought  of  hers  went  to  the  girl  whose  heart  she 
had  just  broken  ;  she  hardly  remembered  her  existence, 
except  so  far  as  her  son  was  concerned ;  she  never 
wondered  what  would  become  of  her  ;  Naomi  Wynter  was 
less  than  nothing  in  the  eyes  of  Adeliza,  Duchess  of  Cas- 
tlemayne. 

The  duke  came  hastily  to  her  boudoir. 

Herbert,  twelfth  Duke  of  Castlemayne,  was  a  tall,  fine- 
looking  man,  sixty  years  of  age.  In  his  youth  he  must 
have  been  very  handsome  ;  even  now  he  had  a  fine  open 
countenance  ;  a  broad,  frank  brow,  keen  eyes,  finely 
formed  features  ;  the  one  defect  of  his  face,  which  was 
the  weakness  of  his  mouth,  was  hidden  by  a  thick  beard 
and  mustache. 

"  You  want  me,  Adeliza  ?  "  he  said. 

But  the  duchess  was  a  woman  of  quick  resource  ;  she 
had  already  decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  keep  the 
matter  entirely  hidden  from  the  duke.  She  looked  up 
carelessly. 

"  Yes,  I  sent  for  you,  Herbert ;  but  it  was  on  a  matter 
of  no  moment ;  now  that  you  are  here  I  may  as  well  teU 
you  ;  I  have  sent  Miss  Naomi  Wynter  away  to-day." 

Herbert,  tweKth  Duke  of  Castlemayne,  was  wise  in  this 
respect;  he  had  learned  already  that  the  virtue  for  him 
was  submissive  silence.  In  the  beginning  of  his  married 
life  he  had  occasionally  objected  or  murmured  when  he 
was  not  quite  pleased;  he  had  demurred  against  the  dia- 


Si  THE  DUEE'S  SEOBET. 

missal  of  oid  servants,  against  the  turning  out  of  an  old 
tenant;  he  did  none  of  tiiese  things  now — he  was  a  wiser 
man.  When  the  duchess  in  her  stately  fashion  told  him 
she  had  done  anything,  if  he  did  not  quite  approve,  he 
was  silent;  for  this  reason  he  said  nothing  when  ho  heard 
that  the  young  governess,  whom  he  really  hked,  h>d  been 
abruptly  dismissed. 

"  What  shall  you  do  about  Lady  Nell  ?  "  he  asked. 

Lady  Helen  Vaughan  was  the  orphan  niece  of  the 
duchess,  who  had  adopted  her,  and  for  whom  she  had  en- 
gaged a  governess. 

*'  She  must  go  to  school,"  was  the  reply.  "  I  wiH  have 
no  more  governesses;  they  are  more  trouble  thj»n  the 
children  they  are  supposed  to  teach,"  said  thedpchess, 
decidedly;  and  her  lord  knew  from  that  decision  there 
was  no  appeaL 

"  You  can  make  inquiries,  Herbert,  when  you  go  over 
to  Mansfield  Hall ;  Lady  Gregory  spoke  very  highly  of 
that  school  at  Torquay,  where  she  sent  her  httle  daugh- 
ter; the  same  school  would  do  well  for  Nell." 

"  Just  as  you  like,  Adeliza,"  he  said,  resignedly. 

"You  will  inquire  about  it,  Herbert;  I  cannotha^ethe 
child  going  wild  about  the  house." 

It  did  occur  to  the  duke  that  his  imperious  wife  might 
have  given  that  matter  a  thought  before  she  had  suddenly 
sent  away  the  young  governess.  He  was  too  wise  to  com- 
mit himself  to  any  opinion  of  the  kind,  and  the  du  'shess 
rested  content  with  the  result  of  her  labors. 

Lord  St.  Albans  left  that  room  in  the  nearest  approacli 
to  a  terrible  rage  that  he  had  ever  been  in  his  life.  He 
passed  up  and  down  the  broad  corridor,  eating  his  very 
heart  away  with  anger  and  dismay. 

"What  can  she  think  of  me?"  he  cried.  "What  can 
she  think  ?  I  can  not  get  to  see  her ;  that  dragon, 
Sidonie,  will  never  leave  her ;  will  take  her  even  to  the 
station.  I  know;  and  what  will  she  think  of  me?  I 
w  ust  try  to  see  her.  I  do  not  care  what  the  old  dragon 
says.  I  must  say  a  few  words  to  her.  She  will  tell  the 
duchess,  of  course  ;  but  I  must  manage." 

He  went  to  the  western  wing,  where  the  school-room 
was,  and  opened  the  door.  Lady  Nell  was  alone,  with  a 
small  regiment  of  dolls  about  her.  She  looked  up  at  hiio 
with  a  smile  and  a  nod* 


TEE  DUEE'S  SECBET.  25 

**I  have  a  holiday  to-day,"  she  said,  "  a  whole  holiday. 
Miss  Wynter  is  going  away." 

"  Are  you  sorry,  Lady  Nell  ?"  he  asked. 

**  Yes,  I  am  soaTy  ;  but  I  am  glad  I  have  my  doUs." 

He  smiled  as  he  bent  over  her. 

"  Do  you  not  think  that  is  a  httle  selfish,"  he  said. 

Suddenly  the  smile  left  his  face,  and  he  turned  away  ; 
the  word  selfish  had  struck  him  with  fresh  meaning. 

"  Lady  Nell,"  he  said,  "  will  you  go  to  Miss  Wynter  and 
ask  her  if  she  will  come  here  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

"Yes,"  rephed  the  child,  « I  will." 

She  was  absent  for  some  minutes,  during  which  that 
word  selfish  seemed  to  have  some  strange  attraction  for 
him  ;  it  never  left  his  thoughts. 

Lady  Nell  returned. 

"  Sidonie  says  '  No,'  Lord  St.  Albans.  Miss  Wynter  is 
going,  and  is  to  see  no  one  unless  the  duchess  consents." 

"  All  right.  Lady  Nell." 

Then  another  idea  occurred  to  him;  he  took  from  his 
pocket  a  jeweled  pencil-case;  he  took  out  a  leaf  from  his 
pocket-book,  and  hastily  wrote  a  few  hnes  on  it. 

"  WiU  you  take  this  to  l^Iiss  Wynter?  "  he  asked- 

"Yes,"  said  the  child;  but,  with  the  precocity  of  her 
age,  she  added,  "  Sidonie  will  not  let  her  have  it." 

"  Yes,  she  will,  if  you  ask  her  prettily.  Lady  NelL" 

Again  the  child  ran  off,  but  with  the  same  result.  She 
returned,  saying  that  Sidonie  would  not  allow  her  to  see 
Miss  Wynter,  but  said  that  if  any  more  messages  came 
she  would  send  to  the  duchess." 

"  The  impertinent — "  and  Lord  St.  Albans  muttered  the 
next  word  between  his  teeth.  "  I  will  pay  her  for  this 
some  day,"  he  said  to  himself. 

"  Lady  Nell,"  he  asked,  "  did  you  see  Miss  Wynter?  Is 
she  dressed  for  traveling  T' 

"  I  saw  her  face  the  time  before  when  I  went,  but  it 
was  white — ah,  so  white  I — Lord  St.  Albans,  and  hard,  not 
at  all  like  her  face,  and  she  was  crying  so." 

Without  another  word  he  dashed  from  the  room  and 
called  for  his  valet,  a  sharp,  witty,  quick,  brilliant  yoxmg 
Frenchman,  by  name  Gaston  Leduc.  He  was  devoted  to 
his  master's  interests,  having,  at  the  same  time,  keen  eyet 
to  his  own. 

**  Gaston,"  cried  the  young  lord,  "  I  want  you  here  aft 


26  THE  duke's  secret. 

once ;  quick,  you  have  not  a  moment  to  lose.  MIbs  Wynter 
is  leaving.  I  want  you  to  go  to  Lanceton  Station.  Find 
out  for  what  place  she  takes  her  ticket,  follow  her,  and  do 
not  lose  sight  of  her  until  you  can  telegraph  to  me  where 
she  goes.     Here  is  money;  now  be  particular,  be  exact." 

"I  will,  my  lord,"  was  the  servant's  answer. 

"  Tou  must  be  careful  of  one  thing,  do  not  let  Sidonie 
see  you — you  understand?" 

"  Quite,  my  lord.  She  shall  not  suspect  me,  I  promise 
you." 

•'  And  if  there  are  any  inquiries  made,"  said  the  young 
lord,  "  you  have  been  home  to  see  your  friends." 

The  valet  bowed,  many  words  are  not  needed  by  that 
quick  nation.  And  with  this.  Lord  St.  Albans  was  com- 
pelled to  remain  content.  He  understood  now  that  his 
mother  had  put  Sidonie  on  guard  to  prevent  his  seeing 
Naomi,  and  that  any  attempt  at  doing  so  would  simply 
end  in  greater  misery  and  disgrace  for  her.  He  was 
wretched  and  miserable.  For  the  first  time  in  his  Hfe  he 
had  lost  his  self-respect,  and  had  shown  himself  a  coward 
— a  coward — he  said  the  word  over  and  over  again,  and 
he  hated  the  sound  of  it.  Such  hours  as  fell  to  his  lot 
after  that  scene  would  have  made  a  young  man  old. 

Gaston  followed  out  the  instructions  given  to  him 
exactly.  The  result  was  that  early  on  the  following  morn- 
ing the  young  lord  had  a  telegram  to  this  effect: 

"The  person  in  question  went  this  evening  to  Grimes's 
Hotel,  London  Bridge,  and  is  there  still.  I  will  be  home 
at  noon." 

When  Lord  St.  Albans  received  that,  he  went  to  his 
father  at  once. 

"  I  shall  be  away  from  home  for  a  few  days,  sir,"  he 
Sgaid ;  "  did  you  see  the  man  ride  up  with  a  telegram  ?" 

"Yes,"rephed  the  duke;  "it  was  for  you,  was  it?  I 
wondered  what  it  was  about." 

"A  friend  sent  it  and  wants  me  for  a  few  days.  I  shall 
run  up  to  town  to  see  him;  you  wiU  tell  my  mother;  she 
is  out  driving,  and  I  shall  go  up  on  the  eleven  train.  Give 
my  love  to  her." 

And  the  duke,  without  intending  any  exaggeration  or 
misrepresentation,  told  his  wife  that  Bertrand  had  just 
received  a  message  from  a  friend  of  his,  and  had  gone  tQ 
town  to  meet  him. 


THE  duke's  SECBET.  17 

"Who  is  it  ?"  asked  the  duchess. 

And  the  duke  remembered  that  he  had  quite  forgotten 
to  ask  the  question.  It  would  never  do  to  let  his  wife 
know  it. 

"  Charlton  or  Andrews,"  he  replied,  "  I  do  not  know 
which." 

Nor  did  the  duchess  care;  anything  or  any  one  who 
would  distract  his  thoughts  and  his  mind  was  welcome. 
The  idea  that  he  had  gone  after  Miss  "Wynter  never  even 
occurred  to  her;  she  was  too  noble  and  loyal  to  suspect 
others.  She  occupied  herself  in  sending  the  little  Lady 
Nell  to  Torquay,  where  Lady  Gregory's  little  daughter 
Was.  After  that  expose,  no  more  young  governesses  for 
her. 

Lord  St.  Albans  made  the  greatest  haste  to  the  hotel, 
fast  as  steam  and  horses  could  take  him.  It  was  but  a 
third-rate  hotel,  and  they  looked  up  at  the  tall,  aristocratic 
young  gentleman  who  dashed  up  in  such  impetuous  hast* 
to  the  door. 

A  IVIiss  "Wynter  staying  there  ?  No ;  they  had  no  ladles 
in  the  house;  it  was  more  frequented  by  commercial  trav- 
elers than  any  other  kind  of  people. 

"  But  surely,"  he  cried,  "  Miss  "Wynter  was  here  last 
evening.     I  had  a  telegram  from  here." 

Then  the  landlady  said: 

"  Yes.  She  did  not  know  the  lady's  name,  but  certaialy 
a  lady  had  slept  there  last  evening,  but  she  left  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  They  did  not  know  her  name,  nor 
had  they  any  idea  where  she  had  gone,  or  anything  else 
about  her;  she  had  no  cab,  but  had  gone  away  on  foot." 

"  Had  she  brought  any  luggage  with  her  ?"  he  asked, 
and  the  answer  was  "  No."  Then  he  bethought  himself 
that  she  had  left  her  luggage  at  London  Bridge  Station  ; 
if  he  rode  quickly  enough  he  might  catch  her  even  now. 
He  drove  off  again,  and  reached  London  Bridge  in  less 
time  than  any  cabman  had  ever  driven  before.  He  went 
to  the  office  for  left  baggage  end  found  that  he  was  quite 
correct  in  his  surmise.  She  called  that  morning  soon  after 
ten  for  her  luggage  and  had  gone  away  with  it. 

The  officials  at  this  office  were  very  kind  and  very  pa- 
tient with  him;  they  recognized  his  description  of  her 
dress  and  of  her  face.  Beautiful,  and  quite  white,  as  though 
she  had  been  very  ilL 


SIS  TEE  DUKE'S  SEGBXT. 

But  they  could  not  do  impossibilities.  They  could  not 
tell  him  where  she  had  gone;  whether  she  had  taken  a  cab 
or  a  train  or  what.  One  porter  thought  he  remembered 
her  taking  a  box  for  a  young  lady  of  that  description,  but 
he  could  not  be  sure;  who  could,  in  that  crowded  station? 

"  I  will  tell  you  frankly,"  said  the  young  lord,  "  it  is  a 
matter  of  life  and  death  to  me.  I  would  pay  any  sum — 1 
would  give  any  reward  to  the  man  who  can  bring  me  news 
of  her." 

Very  soon  the  intelligence  was  aU  over  the  station  ;  one 
by  one  ^Yai  carefully  interrogated;  the  man  who  had  not 
dared  to  speak  in  his  mother's  presence  examined  the 
ranks  of  cabmen,  the  army  of  railway  porters,  the  clerks 
in  the  ticket-office,  the  only  traces  of  her  at  all  was  thai 
some  one  had  seen,  or  perhaps  fancied  they  had  seen,  a 
young  lady  answering  the  same  description  standing  on 
the  platform  by  the  side  of  a  traveling-trunk. 

And  thus  he  lost  her;  from  that  time  he  heard  and  saw 
no  more  of  her.  He  was  half  mad  when  the  real  truth 
broke  upon  him  that  she  was  lost  beyond  all  recall  He 
did  not  return  to  Rood  Castle  for  a  long  time,  and  his 
mother  thought  he  had  done  wisely  in  seeking  change  of 
scene;  she  was  even  glad  that  he  should  stay  away,  lest 
the  old  recollections  might  be  too  much  for  him.  She 
wanted  him  to  forget  all  the  disagreeable  incidents.  She 
had  her  own  views  for  him  for  the  future.  She  herself 
wrote  and  told  him  that  if  he  was  enjoying  his  stay  in 
town  not  on  any  account  to  hurry  or  hasten  his  return. 
She  sent  her  letter  to  Rood  House  where  she  supposed 
him  to  be  staying.  The  young  lord  was  very  Uttle  in  his 
house;  his  time  was  spent  in  looking  for  Naomi  Wynter; 
when,  after  patient  investigation  in  London  ho  found  it 
quite  impossible  to  ^ace  her,  he  went  to  Scotland  Yard, 
and  placed  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the  best  detective 
there. 

He  offered  a  reward — a  very  handsome  one — he  gave 
the  most  minute  description  of  the  lady,  and  he  left  word 
that  if  anything  should  transpire,  he  was  to  be  telegraphed 
for  at  once. 

Then  he  had  done  all  he  could,  but  there  was  a  sorrow- 
ful impression  on  his  mind  that  it  was  in  vain,  and  that 
the  effects  of  one  hour's  cowardice  would  last  him  for 
life. 


;THE  DUKE'S  SEOEET.  29 

It  was  three  weeks  before  he  returned  to  Rood  Castle, 
and  then  he  was  so  changed  that  the  duchess  was 
startled. 

"  My  dearest  son,"  she  said,  "  you  look  as  though  you 
had  never  slept  or  rested  since  you  left  home.  You  must 
have  been  quite  dissipated." 

He  looked  steadily  at  her,  and  she  was  careful  to  say 
no  more. 

The  duchess  was  very  kind  and  indulgent  to  him  ;  she 
went  out  of  her  way  to  give  him  every  indulgence,  and 
to  make  him  happy.  She  invited  the  friends  he  pre- 
ferred, she  made  all  kinds  of  parties  for  him  ;  but  the 
smile  that  had  once  shown  in  his  eyes  never  came  back 
again.  He  was  a  changed  man  ;  the  laughter  and  music 
died  from  the  voice  that  had  always  been  bhthe  and 
gay. 

At  first  the  duchess  thought  this  would  pass  as  his 
fancy  did,  even  had  it  been  a  fancy.  Never  a  word  had 
passed  between  them  on  the  matter — from  the  day 
Naomi  was  dismissed  from  Rood  Castle  no  mention  was 
ever  made  of  her  name. 

The  duchess  wrote  to  Miss  Graham,  stating  that  she 
had  very  serious  grounds  for  great  displeasure  over  Miss 
Graham  sending  to  her  a  person  of  whose  character  she 
was  not  sure,  and  that  she  (the  duchess)  had  very  certain 
grounds  for  knowing  that  Miss  Wynter  was  far  from 
being  what  she  ought  to  be. 

To  which,  considering  that  she  was  writing  to  the  first 
ducbess  in  England,  Miss  Graham  replied  indignantly, 
refusing  to  believe  anything  against  Miss  "Wynter's  char- 
acter unless  it  was  really  proved. 

"  I  shall  not  trouble  to  reply,"  said  the  duchess.  "  It 
matters  but  little  ;  the  girl  is  gone,  and  there  is  an  end 
of  it." 

But  as  time  passed  on,  she  grew  more  and  more  anxious 
over  her  son  ;  he  was  like  a  man  living  under  the  shadow 
of  a  funeral  pall,  and  as  the  months  passed  he  became 
worse. 

It  struck  her  at  last,  as  it  did  every  one  else,  that  he 
had  some  secret  ■weight,  some  secret  sorrow  on  his  mind 
— that  he  was  miserable,  and  would  never  be  the  same 
again.  All  this  dawned  upon  her  slowly,  as  she  heard 
people  say  how  different  her  son  was ;  but  in  her  heari 


90  THE  duke's  SECBBT. 

she  never  repented,  even  for  one  moment,  of  what  she  hxA 
done. 

At  Brightsea,  the  queen  of  "watering-places,  stands  a 
building  known  all  over  England — a  scandal  to  some,  a 
triumph  to  others,  and  a  wonder  to  all,  being  neither 
more  nor  less  than  the  Anglican  Convent,  where  some  of 
the  best  and  kindest  women  in  England  spend  their  hves. 
It  was  built  by  ^he  munificence  of  the  Reverend  Peter 
Mackay,  and  his  name  is  known  all  over  the  land. 

Some  love,  some  hate  him;  some  praise,  others  blame 
him;  some  ridicule,  some  respect  him;  some  say  he  seeks 
notoriety,  others  that  he  serves  Heaven.  A  civil  warfare 
rages  round  him  and  about  him,  but  he  never  heeds  it; 
his  worst  and  bitterest  enemies  say  that  he  is  mistaken — • 
they  wiU  not  say  worse  than  that — and  his  friends  say  that 
"La  is  a  saint.  Which  is  right  and  which  is  wrong  does 
not  concern  our  story,  but  the  fact  that  his  name  was 
known  all  over  England  as  being  one  of  the  most  just, 
humane,  and  charitable  men  in  it,  does.  It  is  said  of  him 
that  he  never  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  one  in  distress;  that  he 
never  failed  to  help  when  his  help  was  asked;  that  he  has 
rescued  more  lost  sheep  and  saved  more  erring  creatures 
than  any  other.  He  was  not  married — he  had  neither 
time  nor  inclination  for  wooing — and  it  was  one  of  the 
peculiarities  of  his  belief  that  he  thought  no  clergyman 
ought  to  marry. 

"  There  was  no  time  for  it,"  he  was  accustomed  to  say 
to  those  who  remonstrated  with  him.  "  If  I  had  a  wife 
and  children  to  look  after,  I  must  neglect  either  the  sick 
or  the  poor,  and  I  do  not  intend  to  neglect  either." 

That  was  his  way  of  thinking;  right  or  wrong  it  does 
not  bear  upon  the  story,  except  that  it  had  brought  his 
name  into  such  prominence  that  the  heai'ts  of  those  in 
trouble  or  distress  tiirned  to  him  involuntarily. 

His  mission,  as  he  liked  to  call  it,  was  one  of  the  best 
managed  in  England.  He  was  Rector  of  St.  George's, 
Brightsea ;  his  curates  were  all  men  of  the  same  way  of  think- 
ing— to  be  qmte  exact,  when  they  ceased  to  think  as  he  did, 
they  ceased  to  be  his  curates.  When  he  was  asked  why  he 
had  founded  an  Anglican  Sisterhood,  his  answer  was  that 
among  the  poor  and  the  sorrowful  he  found  work  that  none 
but  a  woman's  hands  could  do.  No  one  could  answer  that— 
sneers  did  not  make  an  argument,  laughter  did  not  affect  it 


THE  duke's  secret?.  81 

The  Keverend  Peter  Mackay  had  had  two  or  three  large 
fortunes  left  to  him ;  one  he  had  expended  in  the  erection 
of  a  convent,  one  in  building  churches  after  his  own  mind; 
the  rest  he  had  reserved  for  the  wants  of  his  mission;  they 
were  so  great — the  children  to  be  rescued,  the  young 
girls  to  be  saved,  the  sick  to  be  nursed,  the  sad  and  sor- 
rowful to  be  comforted;  he  Uved  in  a  plain  poorly  furnished 
rectory;  his  own  sitting  room  wore  the  aspect  of  a  study; 
there  was  a  praying-desk,  a  large  bible,  religious  pictures, 
one  or  two  bronzes  of  great  artistic  merit,  some  fine 
wood  carvings,  and  some  very  plain  furniture. 

He  himself  was  a  handsome  man,  with  a  face  full  of  sad- 
ness and  sweetness;  some  said  he  was  like  the  Apostle  St. 
John;  he  had  a  voice  of  singular  sweetness,  a  kind  man- 
ner, a  charm  of  persuasion  that  was  seldom  equalled.  Those 
who  went  to  him  in  distress  always  came  back  comforted, 
even  if  it  were  only  by  a  sight  of  a  face  that  was  more 
like  an  angel's  than  a  man's.  The  perfection  of  human 
tenderness  was  reached  when  he  went  to  see  a  dying  sin- 
Tier;  the  hardest  hearts  melted  under  the  influence  of  his 
words. 

The  Eeverend  Peter  Mackay  sat  alone  one  warm  night 
in  July.  He  had  had  a  terrible  day;  the  great  heat  had 
brought  about  among  the  very  poor  a  great  epidemic,  and 
he  had  been  for  ten  hours  at  least  going  from  one  to  an- 
other, breathing  terrible  odors,  seeing  horrible  sights, 
bearing  foul  words  and  bad  language,  until  his  heart  had 
grown  sick  and  sad  within  him.  He  had  seen  children 
left  orphanB,  find  what  was  worse,  he  had  seen  them  with 
parents  so  vue  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  believe 
they  were  human;  he  had  seen  poverty,  destitution  and 
vice  in  their  worst  form,  until,  in  sheer  despair  he  had 
raised  his  head  and  cried: 
,^   "How  long — oh.  Lord,  how  long — " 

Now  faint,  tired,  weary,  and  sick  at  heart,  he  sat  down 
to  rest ;  he  was  tired  out,  and  a  certain  feeling  of  depres- 
sion came  to  him. 

For  one  man  to  try  to  contend  with  that  avalanche  of  sin 
and  iniquity  was  like  a  soHtary  swimmer  trying  to  breast 
the  ocean.  As  he  sat  pondering  over  these  things,  he 
heard  a  ring  at  the  bell.  It  was  one  of  the  rules  of  St 
George's  that  no  one  should  be  turned  from  the  door;  no 
matter  how  tired  the  rector  was  the  poorest  tramp  was 


32  THE  duke's  secret. 

never  sent  away  without  help  for  body  or  mind;  but  this  hot 
night,  when  no  breath  of  air  was  stirring,  when  his  body 
was  racked  with  fatigue  and  his  soul  with  anguish,  a  wish 
stirred  in  his  breast  that  it  might  not  be  for  him.  The 
door  opened,  and  his  little  page  (the  worse  than  orphaned 
child  of  convict  parents)  came  in. 

"  Am  I  wanted  ?  "  he  asked,  in  the  gentle  voice  that 
never  deserted  him. 

"  A  lady,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "  particularly  wishes  to  see 
you." 

"  Have  you  her  card  or  name  ?  "  asked  the  rector. 

"  She  says  that  she  is  quite  a  stranger;  you  do  not  know 
Her  at  all;  but  she  would  be  grateful  if  you  would  see  her." 

"  Does  she  seem  to  be  in  trouble  ?  "  asked  the  rector, 
giving  one  thought  to  the  untasted  dinner  and  his  long 
fast. 

"  Yes,  in  great  distress,"  was  the  prompt  reply.  Fatigue, 
dinner,  past  pain,  were  all  forgotten — there  was  a  sovd  to 
help. 

A  young  girl  came  into  the  room;  he  saw  a  slender 
figure  full  of  girlish  grace;  he  saw  shining  masses  of  hair 
that  fell  from  underneath  the  dark  traveling  hat.  She 
stood  just  before  him  where  the  dying  light  from  the 
western  sky  fell  full  upon  her;  the  sound  of  the  waves 
beating  on  the  shore  came  in  through  the  open  window; 
and  ever  afterward,  in  his  mind,  the  western  sunlight,  the 
voice  of  the  waves,  and  the  girl's  face  were  associated.  It 
was  a  face  so  young,  so  fair,  so  pathetic,  so  full  of  misery 
and  pain,  so  utterly  woe-begone,  so  white,  that  he  looked 
at  her  for  some  minutes  quite  unable  to  speak.  Then  she 
Baid  to  him: 

"Forgive  me  for  coming  to  you;  I  have  read  of  you 
that  you  are  always  kind  to  those  in  distress.  I  have  a 
sorrow  upon  me  greater  than  I  can  bear;  I  have  come  to 
aak  you  how  I  am  to  bear  it.  They  say,  that  is,  I  read — 
that  you  carry  out  the  doctrine  of  Christ  In  all  this  wide 
world,  so  full  of  sorrow,  of  truth,  and  wrong,  there  is  no 
one  so  lonely,  so  friendless,  so  desolate  as  L" 

"  Poor  child,"  he  said,  pityingly — "  my  poor  child." 

"  I  have  sorrow,"  she  said,  "  that  is  unlike  any  other 
any  one  has  ever  had,  it  is  more  bitter,  more  sharp,  worse 
than  death — ah,  ten  thousand  times  worse  than  death. 
Ah,  Heaven^  if  I  could  have  died  threo  dwjs  &qo.    Yoq 


TEE  DU^QC'S  SEGKXT.  93 

wonder  why  I  come  to  yCu.  Some  weeks  since  I  read 
how  you  had  rescued  a  girl  from  drowning,  and  had  saved 
her,  body  and  soul.  I  thought  of  it  this  morning  when 
I  went  into  a  druggist's  shop  to  get  poison  to  kill  myself, 
and  I  thought  in  my  despair  I  would  come  to  you,  to  see 
if  you  would  do  for  me  what  you  have  done  for  that  poor 
girL     I,  too,  am  sorely  tempted  to  die." 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said  again,  and  this  time  the 
music  of  divine  tenderness  was  in  his  voice. 

"  It  would  be  well  for  me,"  she  said,  if  I  could  weep, 
but  my  heart  is  stone  ;  my  brain  seems  clasped  with  a 
band  of  iron  ;  my  eyes  are  balls  of  fire.  I  have  tried  to 
pity  myself,  to  think  of  the  time  when  I  had  father, 
mother,  and  home  ;  but  my  heart  beats  and  my  brain 
bums.  Can  you  save  me  from  death — you  who  teach  the 
doctrine  of  Christ  ? " 

"  I  will  try,  my  dear  child,"  he  said.  And  by  this  time 
his  face,  with  its  angelic  sweetness  and  sadness,  had  pro- 
duced upon  her  the  impression  it  produced  on  all  others. 

"First  of  all,  my  child,  sit  down,"  he  said  ;  "  you  are 
tired  and  over  excited.  Great  sorrow  tries  one  eve*  anoxe 
than  great  pain." 

He  was  in  his  element  now.  A  soul  needed  him;  he 
forgot  his  ten  hours  fast,  and  the  hot  dinner  awaiting 
him. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  that  is  it — that  is  exactly  true." 

She  saw  him  raise  his  eyes,  and  hers  followed.  The 
western  sun  shone  on  the  picture  of  a  most  beautiful  face, 
divine  in  its  pathetic  grief,  the  head  crowned  with  thorns, 
and  for  one  moment  she  was  startled.  There  had  per- 
haps been  grief  and  desolation  more  bitter  than  hers. 
Her  eyes  rested  there  for  some  minutes;  perhaps  the  cur-» 
tent  of  her  thoughts  were  a  little  changed. 

"  I  have  been  afraid — I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  if  I 
ftm  left  alone  I  shaU  kill  myself;  I  want  strong,  kindhanda 
to  help  me  and  keep  me  from  that  sin.  Will  you,  for  the 
sake  of  Him  whom  you  serve,  will  you  do  this  for  me  ?  " 

"I  win, '  he  answered.  "  I  promise  to  befriend  you,  to 
help  you  in  every  way.  Will  you  tell  me  what  your 
trouble  is?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  scared,  frightened  face. 

**  I  can  not,"  she  said.  "  That  is  what  makes  me  afraid. 
Z  oannot  tell  any  one;  mj  lips  are  sealed.  I  have  a  secr«(| 


34  THE  duke's  segbet. 

but  I  took  an  oath  to  keep  tliis  secret.  Already,  becausa 
I  could  not  break  it,  I  have  lost  all  I  had  in  this  world. 
Do  you  believe  me  ?  " 

The  pity  and  patience  of  his  face  deepened  as  he  list- 
ened. 

"Does  your  trouble  concern  yourself  or  other  people?* 
he  asked. 

"Both,"  she  replied.  "If  it  were  known,  the  con«= 
sequences  would  be  more  terrible  for  others  than  for 
myself.  If  I  could  tell  it  to  any  one  on  earth,  it  would 
be  to  you,"  she  said. 

"Does  your  secret  hold  either  sin  or  folly?  tell  me 
which." 

"  I  can  not  tell,  I  am  no  judge ;  I  can  only  tell  you 
this,  that  I  am  the  most  desolate  creature  on  this  earth. 
Let  me  say  all  I  can.  I  am  an  orphan  ;  my  father  and 
mother  are  both  dead  ;  I  never  had  sister  or  brother  ;  1 
have  neither  kith  nor  kin.  My  mother  had  a  brother, 
who  left  England  years  ago,  but  she  believed  him  to  be 
dead  before  she  died  herself.  My  father  died  first  ;  my 
mother  lived  for  some  years  after  him,  long  enough  for 
me  to  love  and  miss  her.  I  will  not  tell  you  about  it ; 
you  see  those  every  day  who  lose  well-loved  fathers  and 
mothers — that  sorrow  is  not  new  to  you." 

"  Still  I  think  no  less  of  it  because  it  is  not  new,"  said 
the  rector,  kindly. 

The  girl  continued  : 

"  My  mother,  before  she  di®d,  left  me  with  a  school- 
mistress, whose  name  I  can  not  tell  you.  She  left  with 
her  a  sufl&cient  sum  of  money  to  pay  for  my  education 
and  find  my  clothes,  with  the  understanding  that  when  I 
was  sixteen  I  should  try  to  get  into  some  situation,  but 
the  governess  was  always  to  be  my  friend  and  guardian. 

"  When  I  had  passed  my  sixteenth  year  she  found  me 
an  excellent  situation  in  the  house  of  a  great  lady,  and 
there  for  a  time  I  was  happy  enough.  Something  hap- 
pened then — oh,  Heaven,  if  I  dared  but  to  tell  you  what — 
something  which  angered  the  lady,  and  she  dismissed  me 
without  character.  I  am  alone  in  the  world;  lam  without 
kith,  kin,  or  friend.  I  have  fifty  pounds  in  my  pocket  and 
when  that  is  spent  I  have  no  means  of  living — no  charac- 
ter. I  can  get  no  situation.   My  strength  has  left  me,  mj 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET.  86 

heart  is  broken.  Oh,  Heaven,  was  sorrow  ever  like  unto 
my  sorrow,  grief  unto  my  grief  ?" 

Her  face  fell  on  her  hands,  and  she  wept  so  bitterly  that 
the  good  rector  at  last  grew  alarmed. 

'•  I  see  the  difficulty,"  said  the  rector,  kindly,  "  and  it  is 
undoubtedly  a  difficulty.  There  must  always  be  this  secret 
which  you  can  never  explain  away,  but  it  is  one  that  af- 
fects your  position  very  seriously — will  it  interfere  witii 
your  life  ?" 

"  It  has  marred  it,"  she  answered — "blighted  and  spoiled 
it.  I  want  you  to  tell  me  if  there  is  any  comfort,  any 
hope  for  me  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "  You  see  it  is  difficult  to  ad- 
vise when  one  knows  nothing  of  the  case.  Can  you  tell 
me,  for  instance,  whether  it  has  to  do  with  the  two  most 
fruitful  sources  of  sorrow  in  this  world — love  or  death  ?" 

"  No,"  she  repHed,  "  I  can  not  tell  you  anything  about 
^.  I  have  said  that  it  shall  never  pass  my  hps,  not  even 
an  allusion  to  it.     I  am  powerless." 

"  Can  I  help  you  without  knowing  it  ?"  asked  the  rector. 

"  I  think  so.  It  is  the  help  of  a  friend  I  want.  At  this 
moment  as  I  stand  before  you,  I  am  alone  in  the  world. 
As  I  have  told  you,  when  my  money  is  gone,  I  know  not 
where  to  turn,  either  to  get  a  living  or  anything  else. 
But  that  is  not  all ;  that  ib  the  least.  I  want  ease  for  my 
pain.  I  want  to  know  how  to  bear  the  most  cruel  sorrow 
that  a  woman  ever  had." 

"  I  will  tell  you  thftt,"  said  the  rector.  "  I  can  not  of 
course  tell  of  what  nature  your  trouble  may  be,  but  I 
know  that  trouble  should  do  to  the  soul  it  possesses  that 
which  fire  does  to  the  gold  it  purifies.  You  are  very 
young,  you  must  not  let  thoughts  of  despair  or  death 
come  to  you.  I  will  tell  you  how  we  who  believe  in  the 
efficacy  of  it,  treat  sorrow." 

He  talked  to  her  for  an  hour,  forgetting  his  fatigue,  his 
weakness,  his  long  fast — talked  until  she  sunk  sobbing  at 
his  feet,  but  with  the  fiery  longing  for  death  and  the 
ghastly  despair  gone  from  her  tieai't — saddened  and  con- 
trite, but  oh !  so  much  easier  for  the  rehef  of  scalding 
tears. 

"  You  see,"  said  the  rector,  "  what  sorrow  will  do  for  a 
•oul    You  gay  you  would  like  to  die,  that  the  life  of  tbif 


Z$  TEB  DXJEE's  SICKET. 

world  is  ended  for  jou,  you  can  live  for  Heaven,  and  tKal 
is  the  true  life." 

She  could  see  it  as  through  a  glass  dimly — the  beauty 
and  holiness,  the  grace  and  the  purity  of  a  life  that  was 
dawning  upon  her. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  rector,  kindly,  "  what  shall  I  do 
for  you  ?  You  want  rest,  you  want  time  to  think  over  all 
I  have  been  saying.  I  can  find  you  such  a  home  ;  but  I 
iftust  ask  you  one  question.  Do  not  let  it  pain  you.  You 
see  that  I  respect  your  secret.  I  ask  no  question  about 
your  life,  or  the  mystery  that  surrounds  it  I  take  for 
granted  all  that  you  tell  me.  I  trust  you,  but  I  must  ask 
you  one  question.  Is  there  anything  in  your  life  that 
would  unfit  you  for  the  companionship  of  good  and 
noble  women — or  rather,  I  should  say,  for  good  and  pure 
women  ?  Is  there  anything  which,  if  made  known  they 
could  blame  you  for  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully.  Through  the  clear 
eyes  he  could  see  the  beauty  of  the  soul.  She  was  silent 
for  a  few  minutes,  but  he  saw  that  hesitation  came  from 
innocence,  not  from  guilt.     Then  she  looked  at  him  again. 

"  I  believe  not,"  she  said.  "  I  am  conscious  of  much 
folly  and  imprudence,  but  not  of  wrong.  I  think — ^I  am 
sure — not  of  wrong." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  rector  ;  *"  and  now  vnll 
you  come  with  me  ?  Stay,  I  had  perhaps  b^tJer  tell  you 
where  I  propose  taking  you.  You  have  heard  of  the  An- 
glican Convent  of  St.  George  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  have  read  of  it,"  she  said, 

"  I  should  like  to  take  you  there.  You  will  find  gentle 
and  humane  treatment;  you  will  find  the  best  and  kindest 
of  frienda  They  will  be  kind  to  you  for  Heaven's  sake, 
my  child,  and  not  for  any  other.  If  your  heart  is  crushed 
and  bruised,  you  will  find  rest  and  comfort  there.  Will 
you  go  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  unhesitatingly.  "  I  will  g*:)  anywhere 
you  wish,  and  do  as  you  wish." 

"  That  is  good,"  he  said.     "  Now  come  with  me." 

He  went  into  the  hall  and  took  down  his  hat. 

"  We  shall  reach  there  before  the  supper  bell  rings,"  ht 
said. 

They  walked  together  through  the  warm  streets,  where 
the  light  of    the    July    day  was  fast  wauug*  audtlM 


THE  duke's  secbet.  37 

••und  of  the  waves  beating  the  Bhores  mixed  curiously 
•Hough  with  the  noise  of  the  traffic  in  the  streets.  It  wa« 
not  far  away,  and  Noami  Wynter  looked  up  with  some  in- 
terest at  the  bare  stone  walls.  It  was  a  square  building, 
with  many  windows,  and  surmounted  by  a  large  cross. 
Iron  railings  were  in  the  front,  a  small  flight  of  steps  led 
to  the  entrance,  in  the  door  was  a  small  aperture,  through 
which  the  person  who  desired  entrance  could  be  seen. 
The  Rev.  Peter  Mackay  rang,  and  the  door  was  opened  by 
a  sister  with  a  long  black  vail. 

"  I  wish  to  see  the  superioress,"  he  said. 

With  a  low,  graceful  obeisance  the  black-veiled  sister  led 
the  way  to  a  little,  plainly  furnished  anteroom. 

" I  will  take  the  message  at  once,"  she  said;  and  she 
left  theru  together. 

Then  the  rector  turned  with  somehttle  air  of  embarrass- 
ment to  her. 

"  I  never  thought  to  ask  your  name,"  he  said.  "  We  have 
many  here  whose  name  we  hardly  hear;  but  you  must  tell 
me  your  own  name." 

"  I  can  not  do  that,"  she  said.  "I  can  not  tell  you  my 
own  name.  I  will  use  my  mother's;  she  was  called  Hester 
Leyburn.     I  will  call  myself  Naomi  Leyburn." 

"That  will  do,"  he  said,  nervously.  "I  wish,  of  course, 
it  had  been  your  own  name." 

'\It  is  better  than  my  own;  it  is  my  mother's,"  she  replied. 

Then  the  door  opened  and  the  reverend  mother  entered 
the  room — a  tall,  graceful-looking  woman,  with  a  pure, 
gentle  face  on  which  there  was  always  a  gentle  smile.  She 
bowed  low  to  the  Rev.  Peter  Mackay,  and  looked  with 
interest  at  the  beautiful,  colorless  face  by  his  side. 

"  Sister  I  have  brought  you  one  in  sore  distress,"  said 
the  rector;  "  she  will  want  all  your  good  offices,  both  for 
body  and  souL  She  is  tired;  she  wants  food  and  comfort, 
and  all  that  you  know  so  kindly  how  to  give." 

"We  will  do  our  best  for  her,"  said  the  superioress.  "  I 
hope,  dear  child,  you  will  be  happy  with  us.  What  is  your 
name  ?" 

"Naomi  Leybtim,"  she  replied;  and  the  sweet,  faint 
voice  drew  the  superioress's  attention  to  her.  She  looked 
Vfith.  interest  at  the  face  so  fair,  so  singularly  beautiful,  so 
colorless,  so  strange,  with  its  fixed  expression  of  pain  aod 
Basel/, 


38  THE  duke's  secset. 

'*  This  young  lady,"  said  the  rector,  "  has  been  in  gre*t 
trouble,  in  great  distress,  and  I  wish  her,  sister,  to  remain 
here  until  she  has  recovered  in  body  and  mind.  I  must 
be  her  sole  reference,  and  I  am  quite  sure  that  will  satisfy 
you." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  superioress;  "  that  is  all  I  require.  I 
m&j  say  that  it  is  a  fortunate  thing.  Miss  Leyburn,  you 
have  come  to  us;  when  you  feel  recovered  we  shall  be  glad 
to  have  some  assistance  in  the  schools.  Two  of  our  sisters 
are  very  ill,  and  we  need  help.  You  will  be  most  useful  to 
us;  but  you  must  find  rest,  and  get  quite  well." 

The  young  girl  thanked  her  in  a  low,  sweet  voice. 

The  rector  said: 

"  You  will  have  no  difficulty,  I  hope,  in  finding  room 
for  Miss  Leyburn.  The  room  that  Clara  Stewart  had  is 
empty,  is  it  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  and  in  any  case  we  would  make  room,  as  it  is 
your  wish." 

"  Then,"  said  the  rector,  "IwiU  leave  you  now;  and, 
Miss  Leyburn,  I  will  call  again  to-morrow  to  see  what 
more  I  can  do  for  you.  I  leave  you  in  safe  and  good 
hands,  my  dear  child.  When  you  say  your  prayers  to- 
night ask  Heaven  to  keep  you  fiom  despair." 

"I  wiU,"  she  sobbed;  "and  I  will  thank  you  when  I  find 
Words  strong  enough  and  good  enough." 

It  seemed  very  strange  and  novel  to  her  that  first  night 
in  an  Anglican  convent — the  black-veiled  figures  of  the 
nuns,  the  ringing  of  the  beUs,  the  strange  sweet  silence 
and  calm.  The  sister  superioress  herself  took  her  to  her 
little  room,  which  might  have  been  called  a  cell.  It  was 
small,  beautiful  clean,  plainly  furnished  with  a  little  white 
bed,  a  small  praying-desk  and  a  httle  stand,  a  few  books, 
and  a  desk  for  writing. 

"  If  you  want  rest,  dear  child,"  said  the  superioress, 
"  you  wDl  find  it  here.  You  take  possession  of  your  little 
room  to-day;  you  remain  there  until  you  are  well  enough 
and  strong  enough  to  help  in  the  schools.  You  wiU  find 
that  work  alone  gives  happiness  ;  you  wiU  forget  all  your 
troubles  when  your  mind  is  engaged,  and  you  look  as  if 
you  had  seen  enough." 

She  kissed  her  kindly  on  the  brow,  with  the  sweet  and 
tender  smile  of  a  loving  mother  on  her  face. 

**  I  shall  send  you  up  some  tea  and  you  must  try  to  eat,** 


'■^  THE  duke's  seceet.  86 

said  the  superioress.  "  Good-night,  and  Heavea  bless  you, 
dear  child." 

It  was  all  so  novel,  so  strange.  "When  the  door  closed 
upon  the  kindly  face  of  the  superioress,  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  she  was  alone  in  the  world,  the  strange,  solemn  hush 
and  calm  were  so  great  and  beautiful. 

Then,  after  a  time,  the  door  opened,  and  a  pretty,  bright- 
eyed  little  sister  came  in,  bringing  with  her  a  tray,  on 
which  was  set  out  a  little  tea,  very  plain  and  homely,  but 
clean  and  comfortable.  The  bright-eyed  little  sister, 
whom  they  called  Agatha,  smiled  in  her  face. 

"  Sister  superioress  says  you  must  eat  all  the  bread  and 
butter,  dear  child  ;  also  drink  all  the  tea." 

"  I  wiU.  try,"  said  Naomi. 

"  Then  you  will  succeed,"  said  Sister  Agatha.  "  One 
generally  does  succeed  when  one  tries  very  hard  indeed. 
Is  it  not  so  ?" 

The  bright  face  and  cheery  voice  did  her  good  uncon- 
sciously. She  took  the  tea  that  the  kindly  little  sister 
poured  out  for  her  ;  it  was  the  first  she  had  touched  since 
the  day  she  left  Kood  Castle — that  which  was  brought  to 
her  at  the  hotel  she  turned  from  with  loathing.  It  re- 
freshed her  and  did  her  good  ;  the  deadly  pallor  left  her 
face,  a  faint  color  returned  to  it,  and  Sister  Agatha  looked 
at  her  with  delight. 

"  You  are  better  now,  dear  child,"  she  said  "  How 
pleased  sister  superioress  will  be  to  hear  it. 

It  was  so  pleasant  to  hear  the  constant  repetition  of 
those  words,  "my  dear  child."  It  seemed  toNaomi  as  though 
once  again  she  belonged  to  some  one,  and  that  some  one 
took  an  interest  in  her.  Sleep  came  to  her  eyeHds,  rest 
to  her  heart;  once  again  she  laid  her  head  on  the  piUow, 
and  slept  the  sleep  of  an  innocent  child.  This  was  some- 
thing like  home — every  one  so  busy,  so  active,  so  kind, 
BO  cheerful;  and  as  she  grew  better  and  able  to  talk  to 
tliem,  they  aU  grew  very  fond  of  the  delicate,  lovely,  gentle 
girl.  She  was  ill  for  sometime;  the  good  rector  and 
mother  superioress  were  very  anxious  about  her. 

"  She  gives  me  the  impression,"  said  the  reverend 
mother,  "  of  a  girl  whose  very  heart  has  been  crushed." 

"I  believe  it  has,"  said  the  rector,  "she  bag  sufered 
t9me  terrible  sorrow." 


49  ThA  JfCKSi'H  SiSOBZ^ 

But  after  a  time  youth  and  a  strong  constiuitioB  helptiL 
her,  and  she  began  to  recover. 

When  she  was  quite  well,  she  went  into  the  school,  and 
\rorked  there  with  all  her  heart.  She  seemed  well  and 
contented;  a  certain  air  of  patience  was  over  her — patience 
and  strength,  but  not  happiness. 

There  was  a  dreadful  shock  in  store  for  the  rector  and 
the  sisters. 

For  some  weeks  she  had  seemed  to  be  ailing,  and  at 
last,  by  the  rector's  advice,  the  doctor  was  sent  for. 

The  result  of  the  interview  was  most  unforeseen. 

The  sister  superior  sent  for  the  rector  in  great  haste. 

Naomi  Leyburn  had  disappeared  ;  no  one  knew  where 
she  had  gone. 

She  left  the  convent  while  all  the  sisters  were  engaged. 

"I  don't  know  how  to  tell  you,  or  what  to  say,"  said  the 
sister  superior.  "You  brought  the  young  lady  here  as 
Miss  Leyburn." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  rector,  seeing  that  she  hesitated — 
«weU?" 

"  As  Miss  Leyburn  ;  and  the  doctor  says  that  in  a  short 
time,  young  as  she  is,  she  will  be  a  mother  herself." 

The  rector  looked  in  amaze  at  the  sister,  and  for  some 
few  minutes  they  were  silent.    At  last  he  said  : 

*'  You  can  not  mean  it,  sister  superioress  ;  there  must 
be  some  mistake.    I  can  not  believe  it." 

"  Lideed,  I  fear  it  is  true.  Doctor  Sleigh  is  a  man  of 
too  great  eminence  to  make  any  mistake  about  it.  I  sent 
for  Doctor  Sleigh  because  several  of  our  sisters  thought 
the  unfortunate  young  lady  must  be  consumptive,  she 
seemed  always  so  weak  and  ill ;  she  fainted  after  school 
hours,  and  they  were  all  greatly  concerned  about  her. 
Doctor  Sleigh  is  considered  very  clever  in  consumptive 
cases." 

"  He  made  a  mistake  probably  in  this,"  said  the  rector. 

He  was  accustomed  to  open  vice  and  open  sin,  but  he 
had  never  had  to  deal  with  a  case  of  this  kind  before,  and 
he  was  quite  at  a  loss. 

Besides  which,  there  was  a  look  in  the  eyes  of  the  supe- 
rioress— not  quite  of  reproach,  but  something  like  it,  and 
he  felt  that  he  had,  perhaps,  been  imprudent,  and  wanting 
is  di«ieretioxu     Yet  after  all,  what  could  he  have  done? 


THE  DUKE'S  SEOBET.  41 

It  waa  not  ia  human  nature  to  turn  a  deaf  ear  U>  her 
appeal 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sure  it  has  been  a 
great  anxiety  to  you,  reverend  mother." 

"  It  has  made  me  very  unhappy,"  she  replied  :  "  but  I 
am  gkd  to  say  our  sisters  knew  nothing  about  it.  Unfortun- 
ately, the  inlirmarian,  Sister  Martha,  was  with  her  at  the 
time  while  the  doctor  spoke  to  her;  but  I  have  placed  her 
under  obedience  not  to  mention  it,  so  that  the  secret  re- 
mains between  the  doctor.  Sister  Martha,  yourself  and 
myself.  I  know  the  doctor  will  respect  the  confidence  placed 
in  him;  but  even  though  never  a  syllable  of  it  should  be 
known,  it  is  a  most  unpleasant  thing." 

"  I  am  deeply  grieved,"  said  the  rector,  and  indeed  he 
was.  If  deceit  could  hide  behind  a  face  so  young  and 
lovely,  so  delicate  and  fair,  where  look  for  truth?  and  she 
must  have  deceived  him. 

"  Do  you  think,"  asked  the  superioress,  "  that  she  was 
married?  I  do  not  Hke  to  ask  you  the  question — you 
brought  her  to  us  as  Miss  Leyburn." 

"  And  even  that,"  thought  the  rector,  "was not  her  own 
name.    What  shall  I  do. 

Evidently,  the  best  way  out  of  it  was  to  tell  the  whole 
truth  to  the  superioress ;  »t  was  of  no  use  hiding  anything 
from  her,  not  in  the  least. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  did  an  imprudent  thing  in  bringing  her 
here,"  he  said,  "  but  I  was  quite  at  my  wits'  end ;  and  she 
seemed  so  highly  respectable,  so  really  good  and  inno- 
cent; besides  which,  she  appealed  to  me  in  such  a  man- 
ner, I  really  could  not  help  doing  it." 

And  then  he  told  her  all  that  had  passed  on  that  warm 
July  evening  when  she  had  found  him  seated  in  his  study. 
He  repeated  her  words. 

"  I  did  wonder,"  he  said,  "  whether  she  had  been  un- 
fortunate, as  so  many  young  girls  are;  but  that  which  re- 
assured me  was  her  extreme  youth,  her  natural  goodness 
of  character,  her  extreme  innocence  and  simplicity.  It 
struck  me,  sjso,  that  she  must  be  good  and  true  or  she 
would  not  have  sought  for  a  clergyman  in  her  sorrow.  I 
thought  that  the  mark  of  a  naturally  rehgious  mind." 

"  So  it  was,"  said  the  superioress,  "  undoubtedly." 

"  I  asked  her,"  continued  the  rector,  "  one  question,  and 
it  was  this:  whether  there  was  anything  in  her  life  that 


4s?  THE  DITKe's  SECMJT. 

unfitted  her  for  the  companionship  of  good  and  innoccoft 
women.  She  looked  Hke  a  simple  child  when  she  said 
*  no.'  Yet  I  can  not  think  that  she  was  mai'ried.  She 
spoke  of  no  husband,  only  of  a  trouble  always  the  same, 
the  greatest  trouble  in  the  world:  there  was  none  other, 
she  assured  me,  like  it — none.  I  came  to  the  conclusioa 
that  her  sorrow  was  the  unkindness  of  relatives;  it  did 
not  seem  to  me  to  be  caused  by  the  nonsense  and  follj 
that  young  people  call  love." 

"  No  ;  I  agree  with  you  in  that,  she  was  so  sad,  so  re- 
signed in  every  way.  She  was  not  in  the  least  like  a 
love-sick  girl — not  in  the  least." 

"  You  have  no  idea  where  she  has  gone  ?  "  asked  the 
rector. 

"Not  in  the  least.  She  has  taken  some  things  with 
her,  most  of  the  contents  of  her  box,  but  not  the  box 
itself.  We  have  no  idea  when  she  went.  She  attended 
the  afternoon  class,  and  said  her  head  ached.  Sister 
Agatha  took  some  tea  into  her  room,  and  she  was  there 
then.  Directly  afterward  the  doctor  came,  and  we  had 
this  most  unpleasant  interview,  and  she  went  back  to  hex 
room." 

"  Were  you  angry  with  her  ?  "  asked  the  rector. 

"'No  ;  I  was  horrified,  of  course,  but  it  was  not  for  me 
to  judge  or  condemn  her.  I  simply  said  that  I  would 
speak  to  her  on  the  morrow.  I  knew  that  it  was  quite 
impossible  for  her  to  remain  here  another  day,  but  I  in- 
tended to  send  for  you,  and  still  to  befriend  her  ;  but 
this  morning  when  the  sister,  missing  her,  went  to  her 
room  she  was  not  to  be  found.  Of  course  every  one  in 
the  convent  knows  now  that  she  has  disappeared  from 
among  us,  but  only  three   people  know  the  reason  why.'* 

"  It  must  have  been  most  distressing  for  all  of  you," 
said  the  rector. 

"  It  was,  indeed  ;  Sister  Martha  was  dreadfully  dis- 
tressed. The  worst  of  it  was  that  the  girl  herself  would 
not  believe  it — she  cried,  she  insisted  that  could  not  be 
true ;  she  would  not  hear  one  word  of  it,  until  he  grew  an- 
gry at  last  and  made  her  listen.  Then  she  was  in  despair 
— that  makes  me  so  frightened  for  her.  I  have  never 
seen  such  despair.  She  lay  weeping  on  the  ground,  and 
we  could  do  nothing  with  her." 


THE  duke's  secbet.  4S 

"Was  the  doctor  angry — did  lie  speak  sharply  to  her?" 
■eked  the  rector. 

"  No.  When  Sister  Martha  carried  her  off,  he  said  it 
was  the  saddest  case  he  had  ever  come  across  in  all  his 
professional  career,  she  was  so  very  young  and  fragile,  so 
rarely  beautiful,  too.  He  seemed  to  think  it  quite  im- 
possible that  she  should  Hve.  My  great  fear  is  that  she 
Las  already  made  away  with  herself,  she  seemed  to  feel 
quite  miserable  enough  for  it — quite." 

"  I  hope  not,"  ci'ied  the  rector,  starting  to  his  feet  and 
pacing  with  rapid  steps  the  little  audience  room.  "  I  hope 
to  Heaven  she  has  not.  I  thought  I  had  brought  her  to 
a  haven  of  rest  in  bringing  her  here.  And  you  say  you 
have  no  single  trace  of  her  ?  " 

**  No,  that  we  have  not,"  said  the  superioress.  "  You  see 
it  is  a  case  in  which  we  can  really  take  no  active  steps  at 
all;  we  can  not  go  out  to  look  for  her;  we  can  not  do  any* 
thing  that  would  attract  attention," 

"  I  must  do  something,"  said  the  rector.  "  I  must  go 
and  look  for  her;  after  all  our  trouble  and  prayers  it  is 
hard  to  think  that  the  precious  soul  should  be  lost.  I 
must  find  her.  When  I  think  of  her  face  I  can  not  believe 
that  she  is  guilty." 

Said  the  superioress,  quietly: 

"  That  is  quite  a  man's  way  of  judging;  I  do  not  judge 
by  her  face,  but  by  her  actions.  She  was  one  of  the  most 
modest,  gentle,  well-bred  girls  I  have  ever  seen;  and  I 
have  had  some  experience,  as  you  know.  I  have  never 
Been  a  fault  in  her  except  that  she  was  always  sad,  always 
with  a  far-off  look  in  her  eyes  as  though  her  thought? 
were  not  here.  To  my  mind  she  was  one  of  the  most  per- 
fect of  girls." 

"  It  seems  hard  to  think,  then,  that  she  can  have  gone 
completely  wrong,  as  we  have  reason  to  fear.  If  she  has 
deceived  me  I  shall  never  have  faith  in  human  nature 
•gain." 

"  Yes,  you  will,"  said  the  superioress,  with  a  faint  smile. 
**  It  will' take  more  than  that  to  wither  your  beUef  in  human 
goodness." 

"I  must  go  and  look  for  her,  said  the. rector.  "I  am 
iJure  of  one  thing,  j'ou  have  done  jour  best  for  her  in 
every  way — if  I  find  her,  as  I  pray  Heaven  I  may  do,  you 
wiU  du  your  best  for  her  stilL    And  sister,"  h%  added, 


4A  I'HE  DUKS^S  SECBXr. 

•*  human  help  is  good — help  from  HeaT«n  is  b«tt«r;  pray 
for  her  and  tell  all  your  sisters  to  do  the  same." 

"From  that  night,  when  the  western  sim  fell  on  the 
stained  glass  windows,  whenever  the  sisters  knelt  in  church 
for  even  song,  they  prayed  for  the  unhappy  wanderer  ;  and 
the  kindly  superioress,  whose  heart  had  been  touched  by 
the  girl's  quiet,  graceful  character,  shed  tears  when  she 
prayed  for  the  wanderer,  and  the  homeless,  the  lost,  and  the 
friendless  for  many  a  bitter  day.  But  from  the  day  she 
left  them  they  never  saw  her  again. 

The  rector  went  out  to  begin  a  search  that  was  utterly 
■useless;  he  went  to  the  different  hotels,  the  railway  sta- 
tions, lodging-houses,  coffee-houses,  but  he  heard  nothing 
of  her:  he  went  to  all  the  piers,  to  see  if  in  her  despair 
she  had  flung  herseK  from  either;  but  there  was  no  report 
of  any  accident  or  suicide;  he  examined  the  coast-guard 
and  tiie  boatmen,  but  they  had  seen  nothing;  the  mo- 
ment he  heard — as  at  Brightsea  one  hears  so  often — that 
a  body  had  been  found,  he  hastened  to  indentify  it, 
always  fearing  to  see  the  beautiful  young  face  fixed  in 
death. 

And  for  years  the  good  curate  continued  that  search;  he 
never  forgot  her;  in  all  his  dreams  and  memories  she 
occupied  a  prominent  place;  he  never  knelt  down  to  pray 
but  that  her  name  was  fixed  on  his  hps;  for  years  he 
thought  of  her,  prayed  for  her,  looked  for  her,  but  never 
saw  her  again. 

XHD  OF  PKOLOaVS. 


CHAPTER  I 

•^WHV  DOES  HE  NOT  MAEBY  T* 

John  Rubktn,  so  every  one  said,  had  succeeded  to  th« 
finest  practice  in  London.  One  of  the  best  known  legal 
firms  was  that  of  Ruskyn  Brothers.  Originally  there  had 
been  three  brothers ;  two  of  them  died  immarried,  and 
the  third  married,  lived  to  a  good  old  age,  enjoyed  hia 
life,  and  died,  leaving  one  son  behind  him. 

That  son,  John,  was  the  envy  of  half  the  legal  world. 
B«  racc«eded  to  a  magnificent  pracUoe;  but  the  chief 


THE  duee's  seobst.  4b 

floiiree  of  his  revenue  was  derived  from  the  management 
of  the  grand  ducal  estates  of  Castlemayne. 

For  long  generations  past  the  Ruskyns  had  managed 
the  affairs  of  the  Castlemaynes.  They  knew  everything 
connected  with  the  estates,  the  length  of  the  leases,  the 
histories  of  the  tenants;  they  knew  the  dowry  each  lady 
of  the  house  had  brought  with  them. 

No  Duke  of  Castle maine  had  ever  troubled  himself  about 
his  rents  or  his  revenues;  they  were  in  the  hands  of  faith- 
ful stewards.  It  had  been  a  remarkable  fact  through  all 
their  history  that  the  elder  of  each  house  died,  and  the 
younger  succeeded  at  the  same  time.  For  instance,  old 
Richard  Ruskyn  was  dead,  and  his  son  John  succeeded 
him;  so  the  late  Duke  of  Castlemaine,  the  genial,  kindly, 
hospitable  duke,  who  had  never  spoken  an  angry  word  in 
his  life,  and  had  been  good  to  every  one,  was  dead,  and 
his  son  Bertrand,  the  thirteenth  duke,  reigned  in  his 
Btead.  The  duchess  had  felt  her  husband's  loss  very  se- 
verely, but  she  was  one  of  those  who  never  yield  to  feeling 
or  emotion  when  there  was  duty  to  be  done.  She  con- 
sidered her  duties  were  now  doubled,  that  she  must  look 
after  her  son  with  more  care  and  dihgence  than  she  had 
ever  done,  that  she  must  have  a  firmer  hand  than  ever  in 
the  ruling  of  affairs.  She  felt  herself  to  be  both  duke  and 
duchess;  her  son,  to  her,  was  still  a  child  to  be  managed 
and  guided;  that  he  should  ever  be  quite  independent 
of  her  was  a  thing  that  she  never  contemplated  at  all 
and  would  have  laughed  at  The  duke  was  dead  and  the 
duke  reigned  in  his  stead.  Duke  Bertrand  had  succeeded 
to  numerous  estates — ^to  Rood  Castle  in  Derbyshire,  to 
Rood  House  in  Belgravia,  to  Craig  Castle,  a  stately  old 
fortress  in  Northumberland,  to  Hatton  Hall  in  Kent,  and 
to  Cumber  House,  in  the  Isle  of  Wight — succeeded  to  a 
rent  roll  that  was  almost  unequaled;  to  a  fortune  in 
pictures,  statues,  works  of  art,  magnificent  furniture,  jew- 
els that  might  have  formed  a  queen's  dowry;  but  they 
were  in  the  possession  of  the  duchess.  She  would  give 
them  up  to  Bertrand's  wife,  she  said;  but  no  wife  was  ex- 
pected yet  One  of  the  troubles  that  she  kept  shut  up  in 
that  proud  heart  of  hers  was  this — ^that  her  son  showed 
no  desire  to  find  a  wife  for  himself,  none  whatever :  on  the 
eontrary,  he  was  never  well  disposed  for  the  society  of 
Mdiec;  he  preferred  that  of  his  own  gez;  of  all  flirtatioa  hi 


46  THE  duke's  SECBini 

was  as  innocent  as  a  child.  His  utter  indifference  to  th« 
fair  sex  was  unpardonable.  The  duchess  never  wearied 
of  bringing  first  one  beauty,  then  another;  she  talked  te 
him  continually  of  the  necessity  of  marrying. 

"  You  must  have  a  wife,  Bertrand,"  she  said  to  him 
almost  every  day  of  his  life.  "  A  bachelor  duke  is  a  thing 
quite  unheard  of.  You  must  marry  well  so  as  to  add  to 
the  dignity  and  honor  of  your  house,  and  you  must  marry 
some  one  well  fitted  to  fill  the  position.  After  the  royal 
family  the  Castlemaynes  hold  the  first  place  in  England — 
of  that  I  am  quite  sure — and  you  must  bear  it  in  mind 
when  you  marry." 

He  never  made  hor  any  answer;  he  naver  said  that  he 
should  or  should  not,  that  he  was  wiUiug  or  not  wiUing. 
At  times  he  smiled  or  sighed  as  the  humor  took  him,  but 
never  a  word  said  he.  Again  she  would  allude  to  tb« 
famous  Castlemayne  diamonds,  said  by  connoisseurs  to  be 
the  finest  in  England. 

"I  am  only  keeping  these  diamonds  until  your  wife 
comes,  Bertrand." 

His  answer  was  always: 

"  No  one  will  look  so  well  in  them  as  youself,  mother," 
and  that  she  quite  believed. 

Again  her  grace  would  feel  uneasy  about  him  and  say: 

"  Bertrand,  I  wish  you  were  a  little  liko  other  men.  I 
do  not  want  to  see  you,  fast,  foohsli,  dissipated  or  extrava- 
gant, or  anytliing  of  that  kind;  but  I  wish  you  were  like 
other  young  men,  and  devoted  some  little  time  or  atten- 
tion to  the  ladies.  How  can  you  choose  a  wife  if  you  avoid 
them  ?  There  is  Ludy  Cassandra  Lnrville,  the  prettiest, 
wealthiest  girl  in  England,  why  not  try  to  care  for  her?  " 

He  laughed. 

"  That  is  no  answer,"  said  the  stately  duchess,  "  nona 
at  all,"  and  her  son  turned  away. 

So  ten  years  passed,  and  yet  she  had  made  no  impres- 
sion on  him.  The  twelfth  Duke  of  Castlemayne  had  been 
ten  years  in  his  grave;  the  thirteenth  duke  had  been  ten 
years  the  reigning  head  of  the  house.  Ten  years  had  but 
added  to  the  stately  beauty  of  the  duchess,  and  had  taken 
no  charm  from  her — neither  that  of  bright  eyes,  flowing 
hair,  nor  grace  of  figure. 

Ten  years  and  at  last  the  duke  was  oompletel/  ai  baj. 


r.- —     -  'iTHE  duke's  secbet.  47 

/ 

Her  grace  gave  him  no  peace.    He  must  marry — ^why 
could  he  not  do  as  other  people  did  ? 

That  which  distressed  Adeliza,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne 
most,  was  this — the  family  she  detested  most  was  the  one 
that,  unless  her  son  married,  must  succeed  her — the  Erer- 
leighs  of  Leigh  Major.  Laura,  Lady  Everleigh,  and  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  had  been  rivals  since  they  were 
babies.  The  duchess  was  a  magnificent  brunette.  Lady 
Everleigh  the  queen  of  blondes;  they  had  been  rivals  in 
every  way.  Even  Herbert,  the  twelfth  duke,  had  wavered 
at  first  between  the  two  girls,  uncertain  which  he  admired 
the  most;  ultimately  he  decided  in  favor  of  the  duchess. 

Many  people  thought  it  a  strange  coincidence  that  the 
beautiful  Adeliza  should  marry  the  duke  and  her  equally 
beautiful  rival  should  marry  his  next  of  kin — she  married 
Lord  Everleigh,  Baron  of  Leigh ;  she  had  two  daughters 
and  one  son.  The  daughters,  Hilda  and  Blanche,  had 
lately  been  presented,  and  theii-  rare  loveliness  had  created 
quite  a  furor.  Lord  Everleigh  had  been  dead  for  some 
years,  and  Arthur  had  succeeded  him.  That  which  made 
the  duchess  so  angry  was  that  in  the  "  Peerage,"  and 
every  other  book  which  told  of  the  Enghsh  nobility,  she 
read  always  that  Arthur,  Lord  Everleigh,  was  heir  pre- 
sumptive to  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne. 

"  How  absurd  this  is,  Bertrand,"  she  would  cry  to  her 
son,  "how  more  than  foolish;  every  time  that  ridiculous 
Lady  Laura  reads  this  it  is  a  fresh  triiimph  to  her." 

"  Why  do  you  call  Lady  Laura  ridiculous  ?  "  asked  the 
duke.     "  She  seems  to  be  a  very  nice  woman." 

"  My  dear,  I  detest  her,  and  I  know  that  she  triumphs 
over  me.  I  know  that  she  is  always  speculating  on  the 
horrible  chance  of  her  son  succeeding  you.  She  is  the 
most  insolent  of  women.  I  met  her  at  the  Embassy  last 
evening;  she  laughed — positively  laughed  at  me — and 
said,  '  Your  son  seems  determined  to  make  my  son  a  duke. ' 

Imagine  that  insolence.  *  My  son  does  nothing  of  the 
kind,'  I  said.  '  Then  why  does  he  not  marry  ? '  she  said. 
'I  assure  you  that  my  son  is  gaining  additional  favor  every 
day  that  sees  his  grace  unmarried.*  Now,  Bertrand,  you 
must  know  that  this  is  utterly  odious  to  me.  Why  do 
you  not  begin  in  real  earnest  ?  ** 

" My  deaiest  mother,  be  patient  I  will  see  Mr.  Rue- 
kpx.  to-i  iorrow." 


48  THE  DUKE'S  SECRET. 

She  looked  up  in  utmost  wonder. 

"  You  will  see  Mr.  Kuskyn !  What  on  earth  has  your 
lawyer  to  do  with  your  getting  married  ?" 

He  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  most  terri*ble  mistake, 
but  thought  to  get  out  of  it  as  best  he  could. 

"  I  was  not  thinking  in  the  least  of  what  I  said.  I  hava 
to  see  Mr.  Ruskyn  to-morrow  on  some  very  important 
business,  and  I  will  think  of  what  you  say,  mother,  about 
the  other  matter." 

The  duchess  raised  her  hands  in  despair. 

"  My  dear  Bertrand,  what  hope  is  there  for  any  man 
who  calls  love  and  marriage  the  other  matter?  I  am 
afraid  it  is  utterly  helpless;  but  I  shall  never  rest  in  my 
grave  if  Laura  Everleigh's  son  is  master  of  Rood  Castle. 
I  would  almost  sooner  see  it  burned  and  the  title  destroyed 
'JMUi  that  time  should  come." 

"  How  you  hate  that  poor  woman,  mother,"  he  said. 

*'  It  is  not  a  question  of  my  hating  Lady  Laura,  but  of 
your  getting  married,"  she  replied.  "  There  are  at  this 
moment  three  of  the  nicest  girls  in  England  waiting  for 
you,  and  you  let  every  chance  pass  by.  It  is  a  cruel  dis- 
appointment to  me,  my  son." 

"  I  am  sorry,  mother.  I  do  not  like  to  disappoint  you 
in  any  one  thing." 

"  You  ha^e  said  so  ever  since  you  were  of  age,  yet  you 
never  take  one  step  in  the  right  direction — never.  I  shall 
never  have  the  happiness  that  other  mothers  have;  and  it 
seems  hard,  for  you  are  my  only  chUd.  I  shall  never  live 
as  other  mothers  do  to  rejoice  in  my  grandchildren,  to 
grow  young  again  in  their  youth,  to  see  sturdy,  noble  lads 
and  graceful  girls,  who  can  carry  on  the  honors  of  a  fine 
old  race.  I  am  desolate  and  lonely,  because  you  will  not 
marry,  will  not  bring  a  yoimg  wife  home  to  lighten  the 
old  castle.  I  am  growing  older  and  would  fain  rest  at 
times,  but  I  never  can." 

He  looked  very  thoughtful;  his  mother  went  on: 

"  I  am  so  anxious  about  it,  Bertrand.  You  will  never 
know  how  much  I  think  of  this  fact  of  your  showing  no 
inchnation  to  get  married.  It  is  my  one  trouble  in  life. 
I  say  to  myself  that  if  your  father  had  lived  it  would  have 
been  so  different;  he  would  have  impressed  you  more  than 
I  ieem  able  to  do." 

"  I  »m  sure  that  I  am  always  most  anxious  to  pletUM 


r  THE  duke's  SICBST.  40 

rva,  mother.  I  do  not  remember  one  instanee  in  which 
have  nm  counter  to  yotir  wishes  in  any  way." 

"  Except  in  this,  Bertrand.  You  will  laugh  when  I  tell 
you  that  even  when  I  saw  you  a  little  baby  in  your  cradle 
I  speculated  as  to  whom  you  would  marry,  and  I  decided 
in  my  own  mind  that  a  royal  duchess  might  be  proud  to 
accept  you.  Think,  then,  what  a  disappointment  it  has 
been  to  me  that  you  should,  of  aU  men  in  the  world,  never 
think  of  marrying.  I  am  so  anxious  over  it,  so  full  of 
dread  lest  Lady  Laura's  son  should  succeed,  that  I  would 
be  willing  for  you  to  marry  any  one  rather  than  liv« 
single." 

"  Ah,  mother,"  he  said,  with  a  d^ep  sigh,  "  if  you  had 
but  thought  that  years  ago." 

The  duchess  looked  up  in  stately  surprise. 

"Tears  ago,  Bertrand!  Why,  did  you  ever  car*  fo* 
any  one  years  ago  ?  " 

"  I  might  have  cared  for  some  one,  but  I  knew  that  it 
"Would  be  of  no  use  whatever." 

She  never  thought  of  the  little  episode  of  the  handker- 
chief and  the  knots  of  ribbon  ;  she  had  forgotten  the 
white  face  upraised  to  her  son's ;  she  had  forgotten  the 
Bweet,  girlish  voice  that  cried,  "  I  appeal  to  you.  Lord 
St.  Albans !  "  In  her  own  mind  she  thought  over  those  ol 
her  own  class  with  whom  she  had  associated,  and  she 
could  remember  no  one  in  whom  he  had  ever  seemed 
interested. 

"  Talking  the  matter  over  is  of  no  use,"  said  the  duchess. 
*'  I  certainly  never  dreamed  that  my  life  wotild  close  in  a 
cloud  of  mortification  and  regret.  It  will  unless  you 
think  more  seriously  of  marriage  than  you  have  yet  done. 
I  was  positively  told  last  week  that  Lady  Laura  said  her 
heart  had  always  been  fixed  on  Rood  Castle !  I  can  not 
endure  to  think  of  her  hving  in  my  rooms,  sneering,  as  1 
know  she  would,  at  everything  I  held  most  sacred." 

And  the  duchess  wiped  tears  of  real  mortification  from 
her  eyes. 

The  duke  was  really  distressed. 

"  My  dearest  mother,  I  did  not  indeed  think  you  had 
the  matter  so  completely  at  heart.  I  wiU  do  my  best;  I 
will  see — I  mean  that  I  will  look  round  me.  Gh««r  ufl 
lady  Laura  shall  never  have  Bood  Castle." 


60  THX  duke's  secret. 

She  did  what  was  a  very  rare  action  with  h«r — ske 
bent  forward  and  kissed  her  son. 

"Do  think  it  well  over,  my  s@n;  I  shall  rest  my  hopes 
on  joxl" 

CHAPTEE  iX 

**  THIS  WBETCHEJ)  SECRET  HAUNTS  ME." 

Long  after  his  mother  had  left  him  the  diike  sat  buried 
In  deep  thought.  Over  his  handsome  face  came  an  ex- 
pression of  weariness  and  unhappiness;  once  or  twice  a 
smothered  groan  came  from  his  lips. 

•'  If  I  could  have  foreseen  it,  if  I  could  have  but  known!" 
he  said  to  himself.  "My  poor  mother  I "  Once  or  twice 
he  rose  from  his  chair  and  paced  up  and  do-vn  the  long 
room.  "  I  can  see  no  way  out  of  it,"  he  said,  "nor  do  I 
believe  any  one  else  can  find  one.  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  He 
looked  miserable,  wretched,  dissatisfied. 

He  was  the  wealthiest  duke  in  England  ;  he  had  more 
money  than  he  could  possibly  spend ;  he  had  estates  all 
over  the  country,  he  had  houses  and  lands,  he  had  every 
order  that  could  be  conferred  upon  him  ;  his  position  and 
influence  were  unequaled  and  unbounded  ;  he  had  every 
gift  of  nature  and  of  fortune  which  could  make  a  man's 
heart  glad  and  happy  ;  and  yet  he  was  perhaps  one  of  the 
most  wretched  men  in  the  world.  There  were  times 
when  he  envied  the  poorest  laborer  on  his  estate.  He 
had  been  known  to  stand  at  a  cottage  door  watching  hus- 
band, wife,  and  children,  and  then  turn  away  with  tears  in 
his  eyes;  he  had  been  known  to  stand  and  watch  a  group 
of  children  at  play,  mothers  with  children  aroimd  them, 
and  turn  away  with  a  moan  on  his  lips. 

As  the  years  passed  the  simple  people  who  lived  on  hig 
estate  became  more  and  more  sure  that  he  had  had  a  great 
trouble  in  his  life.  They  talked  about  the  young  duke  in 
a  kindly,  sympathetic  fashion,  but  they  always  ended  by 
saying  that  he  looked  like  one  who  had  something  on  his 
mind;  what  that  something  could  be  they  never  made  the 
faintest  attempt  at  guessing. 

The  duchess  had  never  seemed  quite  human  in  the  eyes 
of  these  good  people;  her  beanty,  her  tall,  commanding 
figure,  her  handsome  face,  her  magnificence  raised  her 
ia,  their  eyes  far  beyond  the  every-day  world.  They  under- 


tms  duke's  secbsi^  H 

stood  the  duke  better.  Every  one  wondered  why  he  did 
not  maiTy — all  the  matrons  and  maidens  of  the  fashionable 
world  were  anxious  over  it.  Tiiere  were  hundi'eds  of 
pretty  girls  in  the  marriage  market — only  one  of  them 
would  be  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  and  the  question  was 
which  should  be  it  ?  They  were  only  just  beginning  to 
realize  that  it  was  just  possible  he  nerer  intended  to 
marry  at  all. 

"  What  am  I  to  do  ?"  said  the  duke  to  himself.  "  I  do 
aot  beUeve  that  in  all  the  wide  world  there  is  a  man  in 
guch  a  predicament  as  I  am  at  this  present  moment." 

The  result  of  his  long  meditation  and  dehberation  was 
that  he  wrote  a  note  to  his  lawyer,  asking  him  to  meet  him 
the  jioming  following  at  his  office;  and  the  next  day 
found  him  there  punctual  to  a  moment. 

Th-^  common  idea  of  a  lawyer — above  all  of  the  lawyer 
in  novels — is  that  of  a  bald-headed,  wrinkled,  money-lov- 
ing man;  but  John  Ruskyn  was  very  different  to  this. 
He  was  a  fine,  tall  man,  with  a  frank,  genial  face;  and  apart 
from  money-making  he  had  a  true  liking  for  his  profes- 
sion; he  enjoyed  an  intricate  law  case;  he  enjoyed  the  ins 
and  outs  of  law,  always  so  uncertain;  he  enjoyed  control 
over  land  and  money,  and  he  did  his  best  in  a  thoroughly 
honest  fashion  for  his  clients;  he  was  keen  and  bright  of 
intellect,  and  he  brought  it  all  to  bear  on  each  case  in- 
trusted to  him.  But  his  great  delight  and  pleasure  wat 
the  agency  of  the  large  Castlemayne  estates;  he  had  care- 
fully mastered  the  details;  he  knew  far  better  than  the 
duke  what  he  had — what  stocks,  what  securities,  what 
farm-leases — everything  connected  with  the  estate  was  in 
his  mind,  all  quite  straight,  distinct,  and  clear;  he  was  in- 
terested in  his  work;  he  was  proud  of  the  duke's  confi- 
dence in  him. 

He  wondered  a  little  what  this  imperative  summons 
was  for — why  the  duke  must  see  him  so  particularly  this 
morning.  There  was  no  especial  business  that  he  remem- 
bered, but  the  duke's  note  was  so  worded  as  to  give  him 
the  impression  that  he  wanted  to  see  him  on  very  impor- 
tant business.  It  was  the  middle  of  a  very  brilliant  sea- 
son, when  the  duke's  time  must  be  fully  occupied;  and 
John  Ruskyn  wondered  why  he  had  not  sent  for  him  to 
Rood  House  instead  of  driving  down  to  Lincoln's  Inn  to 
806  him.    Then  h%  smiled  to  himself  as  the  picture  of  tho 


ft  TBB  DUEE*S  SEOBXT. 

duchess  came  before  him,  and  he  felt  pretty  sure  that  the 
duke  did  not  want  his  mother  to  know  the  purport  of  this 
interview. 

He  sat  before  'his  writing-table,  waiting  anxiously  for 
the  Duke  of  Gastlemajne's  appearance,  and  when  at  last 
his  grace  entered  John  Euskyn  was  struck  with  the  anx- 
iety of  his  face  and  the  nervousness  of  his  manner.  He 
saw  that  he  turned  to  the  door  as  though  anxious  to  sea 
that  it  was  secure,  then  he  came  up  to  the  table  and  the 
two  shook  hands. 

The  lawyer  made  some  passing  remark,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  about  the  weather;  the  duke  threw  himself  lan- 
guidly into  a  chair,  and  sighed  deeply.  A  profound  silence 
followed,  broken  only  by  the  buzzing  of  a  blue-bottle  fly 
in  the  window. 

"  I  wish  he  would  speak,"  said  the  lawyer  to  himself. 
He  broke  the  ice  at  last  by  saying  he  understood  that  his 
grace  wished  to  see  him  on  very  particular  business,  so 
that  he  had  given  orders  that  he  should  not  be  disturbed. 

Then  the  duke  roused  himself. 

"  That  is  right,  Buskyn;  I  have  very  much  to  say  to  you. 
I  hope  we  will  be  uninterrupted.  I  have  a  secret  to  tell 
you.  I  know  it  is  of  no  more  use  to  ask  a  lawyer's  advice 
vnthout  telling  him  the  whole  of  one's  affairs,  than  it  is  to 
take  a  physician's  counsel,  and  conceal  from  him  all  the 
symptoms  of  the  disease." 

"Tour  grace  is  perfectly  right,"  said  JohnRuskyn;  "no 
lawyer  can  give  good  advice  unless  he  can  see  the  case, 
as  our  American  friends  phrase  it,  'all  around'  " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  have  often  wished  to  tell  you  this» 
but  it  seemed  useless;  now,  however,  things  have  come  to 
such  a  pass  that  I  must  take  some  steps.  My  mother,  the 
duchess,  urges  me  so  continually  to  get  married." 

"  I  think  that  every  true  friend  your  grace  has  in  the 
world  would  do  the  same  thing,"  said  the  lawyer,  frankly. 

**  Do  you  ever  hear  people  talking  about  Lord  Arthur 
Everleigh  as  my  heir  and  next  of  kin  ?"  asked  the  duke. 

"Frankly,  yes,  your  grace,  I  have — often,  too.  Lady 
Laura  Everleigh  is  by  no  means  a  reticent  woman;  and 
she  talks  quite  openly  as  to  the  chance  of  her  son's  succes- 
sion. Your  grace  speaks  openly  to  me,  I  will  do  the  same 
to  you.  I  hear  from  every  one  interested  in  you  what  a 
•Ml  thing  it  ig.you  do  fiot  murj,    Th«  Sverleighs  ar» 


THE  duke's  SECBET.  fS 

▼ery  much  liked,  very  popular,  but  they  are  extravagant, 
and  wholly  without  thought.  If  ever  Lord  Arthur  Ever- 
leigh  becomes  Duke  of  Castlemayne  he  will  make  ducka 
and  drakes  of  the  finest  property  in  England." 

"  I  do  not  like  him,"  said  the  duke,  quietly.  "I  am  in 
the  greatest  dilemma  in  which  a  man  was  ever  placed,  I 
see  no  way  out  of  it.  I  can  not  marry — I  can  do  nothing. 
The  knowledge  of  it  eats  my  heart  away.  I  dread  to  look 
at  my  mother's  face;  and  when  she  begins  to  urge  these 
things  on  me,  I  am  the  most  miserable  man  in  the 
■world." 

"  Your  grace  ought  not  to  be  miserable,"  said  the  law- 
yer gravely. 

"  Not  only  am  I  completely  wretched,"  he  said,  "but 
my  life  is  completely  paralyzed.  I  have  no  interest  what- 
ever in  any  single  thing ;  my  life  is  a  burden  instead  of  a 
pleasure;  this  wretched  secret  of  mine  haunts  me;  it  is  like 
a  grim  specter  always  looming  over  me.  It  will  ease  my 
heart  and  mind  to  tell  it  to  you.  I  need  not  ask  for  in- 
violable secrecy — that  is  a  matter  of  course ;  but  I  do  ask 
you  this — you  are  a  man  of  keen  intellect,  of  quick 
resource,  of  great  knowledge  and  will — I  want  you  to  put 
all  these  powers  into  activity  for  me.  Listen  to  my  story, 
think  of  it,  try  how  you  can  best  help  me." 

"  My  secret  is  the  story  of  a  folly  committed  when  I 
was  quite  a  young  man,  and  it  was  a  folly  that  has 
pfiralyzed  my  whole  life.     I  will  tell  you  the  details. 

"  The  duchess,  my  mother,  had  an  orphan  niece.  Lady 
Helen  Yaughan — Lady  NeU,  we  called  her  always — left  to 
her  care.  The  child  had,  I  beheve,  a  large  fortune,  but 
she  was  delicate  when  she  came  to  Rood  Castle — so  deli- 
cate that  my  father,  who  was  goodness  itself  to  every  one, 
would  not  hear  of  her  going  to  school,  but  said  there 
must  be  a  governess  found  for  her.  One  was  found  ;  an 
elderly,  stern-looking  woman,  who  had  not  a  smile  in  her 
whole  composition.  The  child  drooped  and  pined ;  she 
was  always  crying  ;  and  the  elderly  governess  pursued  a 
rigorous  course  of  punishment  for  every  tear  shed. 

"At  last  my  father  interfered — as  a  rule  he  was  easily 
managed,  submissive  to  my  mother  ;  but  when  he  really 
did  exert  his  authority,  even  my  mother  had  to  obey — 
and  he  said  the  child  was  young,  and  she  wanted  a  young 
gOTomess  who  could  laugh,  and  sing,  and  play  tfith  he^ 


6i  THE  duke's  secret. 

when  her  lessons  were  ended.  For  a  wonder  my  mother 
did  not  object,  because  she  loved  the  child.  I  was  away 
from  home — and  I  may  as  well  add  that  I  returned  from 
my  European  tour  one  year  earlier  than  had  been  ar- 
ranged— I  was  to  travel  with  the  Reverend  Eric  Beech ; 
but  at  the  end  of  two  years  I  asked  him  to  return.  I  had 
had  enough  of  it. 

"  Perhaps  had  the  duchess  known  that  I  should  spenc" 
the  next  year  at  home  she  would  have  been  more  pruden^! 
and  would  have  thought  twice  before  she  brought  a  youn^ 
and  most  lovely  girl  into  the  house.  I  came  back  quite 
unexpectedly.  I  remember  that  I  brought  home  boxes 
filled  with  toys  for  Lady  NelL  I  loved  her  very  dearly  ; 
she  was  like  a  favorite  little  sister  to  me.  She  was  delighted 
to  see  me.  I  never  thought  about  the  governess,  never 
heard  her  name  mentioned,  or  any  allusion  made  to  her." 

"One  morning — ^you  must  pardon  me,  Ruskyn,  if  in  my 
secret  there  is  the  very  madness  of  love  and  romance — a 
love  story  above  all,  a  tragedy  that  is  quite  out  of  keeping 
with  a  lawyer's  office — one  morning,  a  beautiful  tender 
morning  in  May,  when  the  hawthorn  was  building  on  the 
hedges,  and  the  laburnum  blossoms  shining  like  gold,  I 
went  out  into  the  park.  I  had  nothing  to  do,  and  I  re- 
merabered  how  I  had  always  loved  the  May  mornings.  As 
I  strolled  along  quite  unconscious  that  fate  had  begun  to 
weave  a  spell  I  could  never  break,  I  heard  the  sound  of 
Lady  Nell's  sweet  laugh  in  the  distance.  Longing  to 
see  the  child  I  went  in  that  direction — while  my  life 
lasts  I  shall  never  forget  the  sight  I  saw  there. 

"  Do  you  know  how  the  lime-trees  look  in  the  early 
May?  there  light  is  half  golden,  half  green,  so  dehcato 
and  dainty  that  there  is  nothing  in  nature  like  it.  There 
was  a  cluster  of  them,  and  the  sunlight  streaming  through 
them  showed  every  delicate,  feathery,  graceful  leaf;  the 
wind  stirred  them,  and  they  looked  like  a  tremulous  mass 
of  green  and  gold.  And  underneath  ?  Ah,  me,  the  years 
have  fled,  the  sun  rises  and  sets;  but  it  will  never  again 
shine  on  anything  one-half  so  fair;  of  course  you  will 
think  it  the  old  story.  I  wish  the  years  could  go  back 
and  I  could  show  you  the  girl  as  I  saw  her  sitting  imder 
the  lime  blossoms. 

"I  can  not,  nor  can  any  words,  paint  her;  the  sun- 
l^ams  fell  on  a  gr^Q^fui  head,  turning  ijie  ricli  brown  htit 


THE  duke's  secret.  S5 

into  a  perfect  gold,  the  upturned  face  was  liKs  r  flower; 
eyes  deep  blue,  deep  as  the  blue  of  heaven,  the  loveliest 
eyes  that  ever  drew  a  man's  heart  from  his  breast;  the 
lovehest  mouth,  red  lips,  and  little  white  teeth;  a  face  that 
looks  at  you  from  the  canvas  of  Greuze  but  is  seldom  seen 
in  real  life.  I  wonder  now,  as  I  recall  it,  that  young, 
romantic,  and  foolish  as  I  was,  I  wonder  I  did  not  f^ 
^ore  and  then  on  my  knees  and  worship  it." 

CHAPTEB  UL 

bebtrand's  love  stobt. 

"  The  child  saw  me  and  came  running  to  me  full  cf  de- 
light; the  beautiful  head  was  raised  to  look  after  her,  and 
the  eyes  met  mine.  It  was  all  over  with  me,  Ruskyn. 
Some  men  take  years  to  love;  others  do  as  I  did,  plunge 
into  it  at  once.  I  had  not  looked  into  her  beautiful,  shy 
eyes  one  minute  before  I  loved  her  with  the  maddest  love. 
Lady  Nell  broke  the  ice. 

"  *  Lord  St.  Albans,  this  is  my  governess,'  she  said.  'Is 
she  not  a  nice  one  ?  The  other  was  old  and  cross;  her 
face  was  Hke  a  withered  apple;  this  one  is  so  different. 
Come  and  speak  to  her.' 

"With  the  child  clinging  to  my  hand  and  dancing 
round  me  I  went  to  her.  She  rose — ah,  Ruskyn,  the 
sweetest,  fairest  vision  of  girlish  youth  and  beauty — fair 
as  the  May  morning  itself.  She  reminded  me  of  Brown- 
ing's 'Beautiful  Evelyn  Rosse,'  with  'the  red  young 
mouth,  and  the  hair  of  gold.'  How  my  mother  could  have 
so  forgotten  her  prudence  as  to  admit  a  girl  so  young 
and  so  marvelously  beautiful  as  an  inmate  of  the  house- 
hold, I  can  not  tell;  the  bear  idea  of  any  danger  to  me 
through  it  never  seemed  to  occur  to  them.  I  imagine 
that  they  thought  I  should  be  abroad  for  some  time,  and 
even  under  the  same  roof  we  were  not  likely  to  meet — 
that  is,  if  they  thought  at  all  about  it.  I  spoke  to  her 
some  commonplace  words,  and  she  answered  me;  then  I 
hardly  remember  what  passed,  except  that  I  stood  there 
rooted  to  the  spot,  my  eyes  fixed  on  the  lovely  face.  The 
whole  world  in  these  few  minutes  changed  for  me;  a 
thousand  thoughts  and  hopes  woke  suddenly  in  my 
heart,  a  thousand  desires ;  a  brighter  blue  came  over  the 
■kjT.  a  brighter  green  to  the  grass;  the  meaning  of  tht 


56  THE  duke's  seosit. 

sunslimt^,  and  th«  birds'  song,  and  the  tremulous  b«aufy 
of  the  lun©  blossoms,  came  to  me  quite  suddenly.  I 
seemed  to  understand  life  -with  aU  its  mysteries,  its 
beauties,  its  tragedies,  as  I  had  never  done  before ;  and 
this  because  I  hac;  looked  at  a  girl's  fair  face,  and  had 
left  my  heart  under  iier  feet.  You  must  remember  that 
i  was  only  just  twenty-one;  as  you  know  in  our  family 
the  leg^l  coming  of  age  is  twenty-three — Heaven  only 
knows  why,  unless  it  is  the  steadier  age  of  the  two. 

"  I  was  just  twenty-one,  and  I  thought  very  little  about 
love — nothing  at  all  about  lovers,  except  that  there  waa 
something  very  silly  about  the  whole  business.  I  had 
been  quite  indifferent  to  the  whole  race  of  girls;  cricket, 
swimming,  shooting,  hunting,  fencing,  anything  seemed 
better  to  me  than  hovering  about  drawing-rooms.  I  won- 
dered often  how  men  could  waste  their  time  in  such  fashion; 
but  now,  if  this  girl  with  one  glance  from  her  beautiful 
eyes  had  bidden  me  stay  I  would  have  stood  by  her  side 
forever.  I  know  now  that  each  Castlemayne  has  had  in 
his  life  one  mad,  hot,  jealous  love  like  this.  It  has  been 
a  curse  or  a  blessing  to  the  race;  but  be  it  which  it  may, 
it  has  fallen  on  each  one." 

**  I  know,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  I  have  heard  father  talk 
about  it. " 

"  The  loves  of  the  Castlemaynes  would  make  a  long  his- 
tory," said  the  duke;  "most  of  them  have  married  sen- 
sibly and  well  when  the  love  fit  was  passed.  I  have  been 
the  most  foolish,  the  weakest,  the  most  cowardly  of  them 
all;  and  perhaps  I  paid  the  most  severe  penalty;  but  I 
must  not  wander  from  my  story.  Lady  Nell,  as  I  said, 
broke  the  ice,  and  we  were  soon  talking  as  though  we  had 
known  each  other  for  years.  I  asked  her  name,  and  she 
told  me  ,Naomi  Wynter.  I  thought  there  was  no  music 
like  it. 

"  *  How  strange,'  I  said,  *  that  is  quite  a  coincidence.  I 
have  always  thought  Naomi  the  most  melodious  and 
beautiful  of  names,  and  have  wondered  much  why  it  is 
not  more  used;  and  in  some  strange  fashion  the  music  of 
the  name  seemed  to  enter  into  and  become  at  once  the 
music  of  my  life. 

"  We  spent  perhaps  an  hour  together;  you  have  seen 
men  maddened  with  wine,  or  spirits,  or  drugs — that  was 
JBDj  case  exactly.    I  came  away  irom  her;  it  M«iaed  to 


THE  buee's  segsex^  57 

me  that  the  whole  world  was  going  round.  I  could  not 
■peak  or  hear.  I  was  dazed  and  bewildered.  Her  beau- 
tiful face  went  everywhere  with  me.  I  saw  it  in  my 
dreams,  and  in  my  waking  hours  it  was  never  from  me. 
It  was  the  first,  unreasoning,  mad,  earnest  love  of  a  boy, 
and  you  may  know  what  that  is. 

"  I  wrote  her  a  little  note,  which  Lady  NeU  gave  her, 
telhng  her  I  must  see  her  again,  and  that  I  would  be  in 
the  same  place    on  the  following  morning. 

"We  met  again  and  again;  each  time  I  loved  her  more 
and  more,  \mtil,  in  the  height  of  my  foUy  and  madness  I 
thought  that  I  could  not  live  any  longer  without  her.  I 
grew  bolder — how  it  was  that  we  were  never  foiuid  out  I 
can  not  imagine.  I  became  afraid  lest  Lady  Nell  shoidd 
mention  our  meetings,  though  I  always  gave  it  the  ap- 
pearance of  an  accident.  She  never  did  mention  it  in  any 
way,  although  we  did  not  ask  her  to  keep  it  secret — her 
own  keen,  kind,  childish  instinct  seemed  to  teach  her 
that  it  would  be  better  untold. 

"  I  asked  her  to  find  time  to  meet  me  when  the  little 
Lady  NeU  had  gone  to  bed.  I  had  always  been  accus- 
tomed to  go  out  into  the  grounds  with  my  cigar — the 
duchess  never  tolerated  smoking  except  in  lie  smoking- 
room — so  we  fell  into  the  habit  of  meeting  every  evening. 
There  was  a  pretty,  quaint  old  summer-house  in  the  park, 
where  no  one  ever  came,  and  we  spent  an  hour  or  two 
there  every  evening. 

"  I  am  growing  older  now,  and  I  have  learned  much  of 
the  world  since  then;  but  a  breath  of  the  old  sweetness 
comes  over  me  as  I  remember  those  sweet  hours.  I  won- 
der if  love  is  as  sweet  to  every  one  as  it  was  to  me;  I 
wonder  if  any  man  so  thoroughly  worshipped  a  woman 
as  I  worshipped  her.  To  be  near  her,  to  touch  a  fold 
of  her  dress,  to  look  into  her  blue  eyes,  to  touch  her 
fragrant  hair,  to  steal  a  flower  that  she  had  worn!  ah, 
well,  I  can  not  talk  of  it.  It  was  the  mad  Castlemayne 
that  dooms  the  lover  or  loved  to  misery ;  it  was  a  sum- 
mer idyl,  for  the  beautiftd  summer  months  passed  on, 
and  to  us  they  were  nothing  but  a  vision  of  golden 
sunlight  and  fragrant  flowers. 

"  Ah,  Ruskyn,  my  heart  is  seared  and  old ;  but  if  I 
•ould  tell  you  how  I  loved  her  or  how  fair  and  sweet  ah* 
kersdlf  was  I    She  had  the  most  simple,  innooent  heturV— 


58  THE  duke's   secret. 

■he  was  in  many  tliiugs  quite  as  much  a  child  as  Lady 
Nell — the  sweetest,  most  transparent  soul,  you  could  read 
her  every  thought ;  she  always  reminded  me  of  one  of 
those  white  lihes  with  a  golden  heart.  At  first  she  was 
very  shy  with  me,  and  listened  without  speaking  much ; 
but  after  a  time  she  was  bright  and  blithe,  and  talked  to 
me  as  the  other  half  of  her  own  soul,  and  then  she  learned 
to  love  me. 

"Perhaps  she  loved  me  all  the  more  that  she  had  no  one 
else  to  love  ;  no  parents,  no  kith  or  kin  ;  she  seemed  to 
be  quite  alone  in  the  world.  Her  mother,  in  dying  had 
left  a  sum  of  money  for  her  to  be  educated,  and  it  was 
from  this  same  school  my  mother  had  taken  her  ;  she  was 
so  lonely,  so  lovely,  so  innocent,  so  tender,  a  man  must 
have  been  a  brute  or  a  fiend  who  could  have  been  unkind 
to  her. 

"They  come  back  to  me  now  and  I  could  weep  tears  of 
blood  over  them — those  happy  evening  hours  when  the 
sunlight  was  dying  in  the  western  skies,  and  the  birds 
singing  their  vesper  hymn,  when  my  beautiful  child-love 
pat  beside  me,  telling  me,  in  her  own  sweet  fashion,  how 
she  loved  me.  Life  has  held  brilliant  hours  for  me,  but 
none  so  happy  as  those — not  one. 

"  We  speculated  sometimes,  in  an  idle  fashion,  what  we 
should  do  if  the  duchess  found  out  our  love  secret.  It 
was  strange  that  we  never  seemed  to  dread  my  father; 
but  happy  as  we  were  in  our  love,  the  thought  of  the 
duchess  finding  us  out  made  both  our  faces  grow  pale, 
and  our  hearts  beat;  we  never  decided  what  we  should 
do,  but  looked  upon  it  as  a  remote  and  dreadful  possi- 
bility. I  think  we  were  too  happy  in  our  love  ever  to 
think  much  of  the  future,  or  that  we  were  doing  wrong, 
or  anything  of  the  kind;  the  glamour  of  love's  young 
dream  was  full  upon  us;  I  am  quite  certain  thntshe  would 
have  died  a  hundred  times  over  rather  than  have  parted 
from  me,  and  I  would  liave  done  the  same." 

"  So  on  through  the  beautiful  summer.  How  we 
escaped  detection  is  to  me  a  miracle,  for  when  the  dew 
lay  on  the  grass,  and  the  flowers  were  waking  up,  I  went 
out  to  meet  her,  I  could  not  bear  to  be  away  from  her; 
when  prudence  compelled  me  to  leave  her,  I  counted  the 
hours  and  the  minutes  until  I  should  see  her  again. 
^_  "Mj*  father  often  ralhed  me,  and  said  that  I  must  har^ 


THE  duke's  secret.  69 

ft  sharp  attack  of  love  fever,  but  my  mother,  I  remember, 
did  not  see  any  change.  Yet  all  this  time  I  lived  only  for 
her  and  in  my  love  for  her;  at  first  we  had  been  quite 
content  to  know  that  we  loved  each  other,  but  after  a  time 
other  thoughts  crept  in.  We  speculated  what  we  should 
do  if  I  were  sent  away  from  home." 

"  I  could  not  Uve  without  you,  Naomi,'"  I  said. 

"  Nor  I,"  she  whispered,"   without  you." 

"That  seemed  to  be  quite  settled;  we  could  not  exist 
without  each  other,  nor,  so  far  as  I  remember,  did  we  ever 
think  of  trying.  Another  thing  was  what  we  should  do 
when  Lady  NeU  was  too  old  for  Naomi  to  teach;  we  could 
not  see  or  believe  in  or  imagine  a  time  when  we  could  live 
without  seeing  each  other — that  was  no  longer  possible. 
I  had  until  then  only  spoken  to  her  of  love.  I  remember, 
ah,  my  beautiful  girhsh  love,  the  first  time  I  spoke  to  her 
of  marriage ;  in  her  innocence  and  simplicitj^  I  do  not  be- 
heve  she  had  thought  of  it.  She  had  been  so  happy  in  the 
present,  she  had  not  looked  to  the  future  at  alL  I  asked 
her  one  day  if  she  would  be  my  wife. 

"You  know,  my  darhng,  that  the  end  of  love  is  mar^ 
riage !"  I  said. 

"I  remember  the  surprised,  beautiful,  innocent  face 
raised  to  mine. 

"'Marriage!'  she  said;  'oh,  Bertrand,  we  must  not 
think  of  that  for  many  years,  it — it  is  only  old  people — I 
mean  people  more  than  twenty  years  of  age — who  get 
married.' 

"  How  I  laughed  at  her  sweet  simplicity !  She  had  the 
greatest  dread  of  the  word  marriage. 

"  'But  you  must  be  married,'  I  said,  '  and  yours  will  be 
the  youngest,  fairest  head  that  orange-blossoms  have  ever 
crowned.  You  will  be  Lady  St.  Albans  or  there  will  nevei 
be  one. 

" '  But  what  will  the  duchess  say  ?*  she  said ; '  she  expects 
you  to  marry  a  princess  royal.  I  have  heard  them  say 
that  there  is  no  one  on  earth  that  she  thinks  good  enough 
for  you.     What  would  she  say  to  me  ?' 

"  And  for  the  first  time  since  the  glamour  of  that  fierce 
mad  love  fell  on  me,  I  realized  my  true  position,  and  how 
more  than  hopeless  it  was  to  expect  that  my  mother  could 
©ver  be  induced  to  look  upon  such  a  marriage. 

"I  remember  how  the  conviction  struck  me  to  the 


60  THE  duke's  secret. 

quick,  and  gave  me  the  first  real  pain  I  had  ever  known  ia 
my  life." 

CHAPTER  IV. 

A  SECRET  MABBIAQE. 

"  I  THINK  for  some  few  days  after  that  conversation  we 
were  neither  of  us  quite  so  happy.  The  certainty  grew 
upon  me  that  if  ever  the  least  inkling  of  our  love  were 
known  we  should  be  parted  at  once,  and  probably  so  effec- 
tually that  it  would  be  forever.  It  was  not  to  be  endured. 
We  talked  about  it,  we  spent  long  houi's  in  deciding  how 
to  meet  such  an  emergency.  Our  fate  was  to  be  to  us  the 
tragedy  of  the  universe.  There  was  nothing  else  like  it. 
Youth  and  love  are  sometimes  sweetest  egotism. 

"An  idea  occured  to  me  one  day,  and  it  was  this:  why 
not  make  everything  right  and  secure  by  marrying  her 
now.  The  marriage  could  be  kept  a  profound  secret,  as 
so  many  others  had  been.  We  coiild  be  very  happy.  No  one 
would  be  hurt  or  injured,  and  when  we  thought  everything 
propitious,  it  could  be  broken  to  the  duke  and  duchess. 

"  Foolish,  boyish,  hot-headed,  bhnded  by  the  mad  force 
of  my  own  passion,  it  seemed  to  me  the  most  desirable 
thing  in  the  world.  If  we  were  once  safely  married,  the 
greatest  dread,  that  of  being  parted,  would  be  removed  from 
us  forever.  We  talked  it  over  by  the  hour,  my  beautiful 
girlish  love  and  I;  she  had  but  one  answer  to  all  my 
vehement  passionate  prayers,  one  answer,  and  it  was  this: 

"  '  It  would  not  be  right  to  keep  such  a  thing  from  your 
parents,  and  they  would  be  sure  to  find  it  out.' 

"  That  was  her  invariable  fear  and  answer.  You  can 
imagine  how  a  hot-headed,  impetuous  young  lover  made 
light  of  such  an  argument.  Once  married  we  were  quite 
safe — we  could  not  be  parted.  Was  not  that  true  ?  My 
girhsh,  beautiful  love  could  never  deny  it.  Why  should 
we  not  be  happy  together?  I  continued:  why  should  we 
wait  to  be  married  until  we  were  old,  and  the  brightness 
of  life  all  vanished — why  not  be  married  now  ?  I  remem- 
ber the  sweet,  wondering  face  raised  to  mine. 

"  *  Married  now,  Bertrand — how  awful ! '  she  said. 

"But  I  told  her  how  delightful  would  be  life;  I  made 
the  most  beautiful  future  for  her.  The  picture  Claude 
Mfeinotte  made  was  nothing  to  mine,  I  sketched  for  her 
the  prett/  little  villa  that  should  be  the  brightest  and  sun- 


THE  duee's  SECBBT.  61 

aiest  home  in  the  wide  world;  there  was  to  be  a  cheerful, 
beautiful  green  lawn,  a  cedar-tree,  a  river  near  gardens 
filled  with  choicest  flowers.  The  villa  was  to  be  fitted 
with  all  needful  luxury  worthy  of  Lady  St.  Albans,  the 
future  Duchess  of  Castlemayne.  I  remember  that  she 
held  up  her  sweet,  white  hands  in  utter  dismay. 

"  '  A  duchess — Duchess  of  Castlemayne  1  Oh,  Bertrand, 
you  know  that  I  could  never  be  that.  I  was  not  born  to 
be  a  duchess.    I  should  not  know  how.' 

"  I  laughed  at  her  answer. 

"  •  See,'  ehe  said  to  me,  *  how  your  mother  the  duchess, 
sweeps  in  and  out  of  the  rooms — how  natural  it  seems  to 
her  to  wear  diamonds  and  command  everybody.  She  is 
like  a  queen.     I  could  never  be  like  she  is.' 

"  *  You  never  know  what  you  can  be  until  you  try,*  I 
said,  '  and  I  think  that  you  would  make  the  most  graceful 
duchess  in  the  wide  world.  Indeed  I  will  have  no  other 
duchess  but  you,  Naomi.' 

"  '  It  does  not  seem  in  the  fitness  of  things,'  she  replied, 
'  not  at  all.  I  am  only  a  poor  governess.  My  father  and 
mother  were  not  rich  people.  I  belong  to  no  particular 
family,  and  it  does  not  seem  right  that  I  should  be  a  duch- 
ess.' 

"  *  Do  you  not  think  it  right  that  I  should  enjoy  my  life 
in  my  own  position,  and  have  the  one  I  love  best  always 
by  my  side  ?'  I  asked  her. 

"  'Yes,  that  I  do,'  she  replied;  'most  certainly.' 

"  '  Then  you  must  do  what  I  wish — let  us  be  married. 
Once  married,  I  care  for  nothing,  because  nothing  can  part 
us;  everything  will  come  right  in  time.* 

"  She  made  one  answer  that  struck  me  very  much. 

"  '  Bertrand,'  she  said,  one  evening,  when  I  was  press- 
ing her  to  consent  to  a  private  marriage,  '  tell  me  one 
thing.  If  you  have  not  the  courage  to  tell  your  parents 
now  that  you  love  me,  how  will  you  find  that  courage  in 
the  years  to  come?' 

"  It  was  a  conclusive  objection,  if  I  could  have  bift  be- 
lieved so.  I  answered  that  if  I  told  them  now,  they  could 
prevent  the  marriage,  but  if  I  told  them  afterward  they 
could  not  part  us. 

"  Still  I  must  say  that  she  never  seemed  quite  to  share 
iuy  enthusiasm.  As  is  the  nature  of  man,  the  more  shyly 
and  coyly  she  determined  upon  not  being  marri«d,  tb/| 


62  THE  duke's  SECBET.  ' 

more  resolute  I  became  that  she  should.  We  talked,  we 
quarreled,  we  parted,  with  kisses  and  tears.  We  made 
up  our  quarrels.  I  threatened  time  after  time  to  kill  my- 
self ;  I  went  for  days  without  feod  until  my  mother  grew 
alarmed.  I  played  upon  her  feelings,  in  every  kind  of 
way  ;  I  prayed,  persuaded,  importuned  and  pleaded,  un- 
til at  last  I  won  her  consent. 

"  She  laid  her  fair,  girlish  arms  round  my  neck,  and 
suid  she  would  marry  me  when  I  pleased  and  where  I 
pleased.  She  took  my  hand — I  remember  how  the  action 
struck  me — and  she  laid  it  on  her  head,  in  token  of  low- 
liest submission  ;  and  I  think  tJiat  no  man  was  ever  so 
madly,  blindly,  foolishly  happy. 

"  Once  having  won  her  consent,  I  was  not  long  in  ar- 
ranging for  the  rest  of  the  affair.  I  told  my  mother  that 
I  was  going  up  to  town  for  a  few  weeks,  and  might 
probably  go  to  Scotland.  I  made  every  arrangement  for 
the  marriage,  and  Naomi  easily  managed  to  come  to  town 
for  a  few  days  ;  she  asked  my  mother's  permission  and  it 
was  readily  accorded.  She  joined  me  in  town,  and  we 
were  married  by  special  license  in  the  old  Church  of  St. 
Mary's,  on  Quay,  Southwark. 

"  You  will  find  the  register  there  all  duly  signed.  I  set 
myself  to  work  that  there  should  be  no  flaw  in  the  mar- 
riage, but  that  it  should  be  as  legal  as  possible — my 
beautiful  Naomi  should  never  have  any  stigma  attached 
to  her  name — you  can  see  the  entry  there  any  time  you 
like — '  Bertrand  St  Albans  and  Naomi  Wynter.'  I  have 
been  to  look  at  it  several  times.  We  went  down  to  the 
sea-side  for  two  days.  I  dare  not  either  thiuk  of  them  or 
speak  of  them  ;  the  tears  rise  hotly  to  my  eyes  when  I  do 
so.  Two  such  days,  and  my  beautiful  girl-wife  was  as 
happy  as — as  they  say  the  angels  are.  It  was  not  much, 
Buskyn,  was  it  ?  two  days  out  of  a  life,  and  all  the  rest  of 
the  life  to  suffer  for  it — not  much. 

"I  am  so  overwhelmed  and  astonished,"  said  John  Bus- 
kyn, "  that  I  can  not  find  words." 

"  And  I  am  afraid  you  will  be  more  astonished  still," 
said  the  duke.  "  I  am  quite  sure  of  one  thing — that  when 
you  have  heard  all  I  have  to  tell  you,  you  wUl  have  lost 
much,  if  not  all,  of  your  respect  for  the  last  of  the  Caetl^- 
Bftyn^i." 


THE  duke's  secret.  68 

"  That  is  impossible,  your  grace,"  said  the  laTryer,  and 
the  duke  continued  his  story. 

"  Two  short  days  out  of  a  life-time,  and  then  yre  came 
back  from  our  dream-land  of  bhss  to  stem  reality.  We 
had  to  part  and  travel  separately — we  dare  not  be  seen 
together ;  that  was  the  first  great  break  in  our  happiness, 
and  strange  to  say,  that  httle  circumstance  of  being  com- 
pelled to  part  brought  to  my  mind  more  forcibly  than 
anything  else  the  real  consequence  of  my  marriage. 

"Unto,  my  beautiful  young  wife  had  left  me— she  was 
to  return  first — I  had  never  realized  the  gravity  of  what  I 
had  done;  when  I  stood  on  the  platform  of  the  station 
and  realized  that  my  wife  had  gone  to  my  home,  I  began 
to  see  dimly.  We  had  made  all  our  plans  and  arrange- 
ments. We  were  to  meet  as  usual  in  the  old  summer- 
house,  and  for  some  months  Naomi  would  remain  at  Rood 
Castle.  Then  she  was  to  give  notice,  under  some  pretext 
or  another,  either  that  she  preferred  going  abroad  or 
wanted  to  travel — any  excuse  that  presented  itself  to  us. 
I  was  to  find  the  villa  and  to  furnish  it,  make  a  beautiful 
home  for  her,  and  she  would  live  there  until  I  saw  my 
way  clear  to  make  my  marriage  known.  When  that 
would  be  I  did  not  know.  Strange  to  say — and  at  the 
same  time  I  am  ashamed  to  say  it — no  sooner  was  my 
marriage  an  accompUshed  fact,  than  a  thousand  fears  and 
doubts  beset  me. 

"  I  coidd  see  no  way  out  of  a  labyrinth  of  difficulties 
and  danger  ;  my  own  uneasy  conscience  told  me  that  I 
had  done  a  foolish  and  almost  wicked  thing.  Probably 
had  I  remained  with  my  young  wife,  the  witchery  of  her 
beauty  and  the  glamour  of  love  would  have  kept  my 
conscience  sleeping.  Awake!  it  cried  loudly.  I  knew 
that  I  had  done  cruel  wrong — the  only  son  of  a  grand  old 
race,  I  ought  to  have  consulted  the  feelings  of  my  parents. 
I  knew  that  if  ever  they  knew  or  suspected  my  marriage, 
it  would  be  a  death-blow  to  them.  My  stately  mother's 
ptide,  and  my  father's  fond  affection,  would  be  stricken 
dead  by  the  blow.  Still  I  did  not  love  my  girl-wife  one 
whit  the  less  ;  but  the  serious  step  of  marriage  had 
brought  cool  reason  and  calmness  into  my  life  again.  I 
felt  hke  a  man  who  had  been  mad,  and  who  had  suddenly 
return  pid  to  his  senses  ;  yet,  as  I  said,  I  did  not  love  my 
sweet  young  wife  one  whit  less. 


$i  THX  DUEl's  SSCBKP. 

•*!  followed  her  home  in  t\TO  days,  and  once  more  mtli 
her  my  conscience  slept  and  my  heart  was  glad.  Ah, 
that  loving  welcome — that  tender,  passionate  welcome. 
I  asked  myself,  as  the  tender  arms  stole  round  my  neck 
and  the  fair  face  nestled  on  my  heart,  was  any  bliss  in  the 
world  to  be  compared  to  this  ? 

"  It  happened  that  the  evening  I  reached  home  was 
wet;  there  was  a  violent  thiinder-storm,  and  I  was  at  my 
wit's  end  to  know  how  I  should  see  my  beautiful,  loving 
wife.  It  was  quite  impossible  for  her  to  go  out-of-doors, 
but  I  thought  she  might  venture  to  my  study — my  rooms 
were  in  the  queen's  wing,  hers  and  Lady  Nell's  in  the 
western  wing — to  reach  mine  she  had  to  cross  the  picture- 
gallery,  and  I  knew  that  at  midnight  there  would  never 
be  anyone  there;  the  servants  would  all  be  in  their  part 
of  the  estabhshment,  the  duchess  in  hers,  and  if  my  dar- 
ling had  courage  to  cross  the  gallery  I  should  be  there  to 
meet  her;  but  to  my  chagrin  and  annoyance  she  wrote  a 
Uttle  note  to  me  saving  that  she  dare  not  do  it;  she  would 
be  afraid,  she  would  dread  meeting  my  mother,  and  it 
would  be  much  better  for  her  not  to  run  the  risk — so 
much  better. 

"  Her  instincts  were  always  right.  If  I  had  had  the 
sense  to  attend  to  them.  "What  do  you  imagine  I  did  ?  J 
wrote  back  to  remind  her  that  the  duty  of  a  wife  was  obe-- 
dience  to  her  husband,  and  by  that  obedience  I  com-' 
manded  her  to  come.  She  would  have  walked  over  red-' 
hot  plow-shares  to  do  my  bidding.  She  came — ah,  me,  I 
shall  never  forget  her  standing  at  the  door  of  my  study 
all  pale  with  fear  and  trembling. 

"I  drew  her  inside  and  closed  the  door;  her  heart  was 
beating  madly  with  fright.  I  made  her  sit  down  and 
take  some  vmie,  and  when  she  recovered  slie  began  in  hei 
simple,  child-like  fashion  to  admire  my  room,  my  pictures, 
my  pipes,  bronzes,  books. 

"  '  We  shall  never  have  a  room  as  beautiful  as  this  in 
the  villa,'  she  said. 

"  *  There  is  no  room  in  Rood  Castle  one  haK  so  beau- 
tiful as  the  room  in  the  villa  which  will  hold  you,*  I 
cried. 

"  Ah,  Ruskyn,  I  never  enter  that  study  now  but  I  see 
her  there  ;  the  tall,  slender,  girlish  figure  in  the  dark 
4r«B8;    the  fair  fa«e  and  bright  head  rising  from  tht 


THE  duke's  secret.  66 

white  neck,  like  a  flower  from  its  stem.  I  see  the  beau- 
tiful figure  going  slowly  round  the  room,  touching  with 
delicate,  taper  fingers  the  different  little  things  that  at- 
tracted her  notice  ;  talking  to  me  in  her  sweet  artless 
fashion  ;  every  now  and  then  stopping  to  consider  what 
she  could  do  if  any  one  should  come  in,  and  shuddering 
with  fear  at  the  thought. 

"I  think  of  it,  and  my  heart  is  like  stone,  my  eyes 
would  shed  tears  of  blood.  I  cry  to  Heaven  to  spare  me, 
to  the  eaxth  to  hide  me,  but  I  cry  in  vaiji." 

CHAPTEK  V. 

A   SLIGHTED  WOMAH. 

"We  went  on  happily  enough  and  safely  for  some 
veeks,"  said  the  duke;  "the  great  mistake  that  we  made 
Was  that  we  repeated  the  visit  to  my  study  too  often.  It 
was  such  an  easy  way  of  seeing  her;  it  presented  no  diffi- 
Tjulties;  we  could  talk  at  our  ease,  and  remain  undisturbed 
together.  Meeting  in  that  fashion  presented  far  less  dif- 
fictdties  than  meeting  out-of-doors.  So  we  became  impru- 
dent, and  every  night  my  beautiful  girl-wife  found  her 
way  through  the  long  corridor,  and  across  the  picture 
gaUery  to  me.  Every  evening  I  waited  there  for  her,  and 
drew  her  in  my  room,  loving  her  each  day  better  than 
before. 

"Yet,  strange  to  say,  the  deeper  grew  my  love,  the 
deeper  grew  my  dread  and  fear  of  being  found  out.  1 
began  to  grow  more  cautious.  I  can  not  teU  what  I 
thought  my  mother  had  power  to  do,  but  I  must  have  had 
A  vague  and  terrible  idea  of  her  influence.  I  had  always 
lived  more  or  less  in  dread  of  her,  and  certainly  felt  great 
awe  of  her.  I  can  not  tell  how  it  was — I  am  quite  sure 
that  I  have  never  been  a  coward  by  natvire;  I  have  had  as 
much  fire,  spirit,  and  energy  as  any  one  of  my  race,  but  at 
that  time  of  my  life  it  most  certainly  ceased  to  animate  me. 

"  One  evening,  I  remember,  we  had  a  great  fright  j 
Naomi  was  sitting  in  my  lounging-chair,  and  I  was  lean- 
ing over  her,  talking,  when  we  heard  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps drawing  nearer  and  nearer;  some  one  touched  th© 
handle  ot  ray  door,  and  my  mother's  voice  said: 

"  '  Bertrand,  are  you  here  ?    I  want  you.' 

"  We  both  stood  still  as  death  under  the  shock  of  tbt 


06  THE  DtJKE'S  SEORBl'. 

surprise.  1  was  afraid  she  would  cry  out,  or  faint,  but  sk* 
stood,  poor  child,  with  her  hand  clinging  to  me,  almost 
breathless,  almost  dead.  The  duchess  remained  for  half 
a  minute,  then  went  to  my  bedroom  door,  that  she  opened 
and  entered.  Evidently  something  attracted  her  attention 
there,  for  she  entered  the  room  and  remained  there. 

"  *  This  is  our  only  chance,'  I  whispered.  '  You  must  go 
quietly,  but  quick  as  lightning,  down  the  corridor;  and  I 
will  go  to  my  mother  and  engage  her  attention.' 

"  All  the  love  of  my  heart  went  into  the  kiss  I  gave  her. 

"  Then  with  the  speed  of  a  lapwing  she  fled  down  the 
corridor,  and  I  went  into  my  room.  The  duchess  was 
merely  looking  at  a  photograph  I  had  recently  purchased, 

" '  How  beautiful  that  is,  Bertrand,'  said  my  mother, 
calmly,  little  dreaming  how  my  heart  was  beating  with 
tumult  and  fear,  little  knowing  how  my  ears  were  strained 
to  catch  the  last  echo  of  those  flying  footsteps ;  it 
vanished,  and  then  I  couid  turn  to  my  mother  with  a 
smiling  face,  and  ask  her  to  what  I  was  indebted  for  the 
great  honor  of  a  visit  at  that  time  of  night.  It  was 
merely  some  little  commission  that  she  wanted  from  the 
neighboring  town  of  Lanceham.  She  was  in  an  un- 
usually amiable  frame  of  mind,  kissed  me,  and  told  me 
not  to  sit  up  late  reading.  We  went  down  the  corridor 
together;  she  stood  for  one  minute  against  my  study 
door. 

"'Do  you  keep  this  room  locked,'  she  said,  carelessly; 
and  I  answered  : 

"  '  Yes,  when  I  have  not  time  to  put  my  papers  away.* 

She  laughed  again  as  she  said  : 

*' '  They  can  not  be  of  any  vital  consequence,  Bertrand.* 

"  She  went  on  to  her  room,  and  the  first  thing  I  saw 
lying  on  the  ground  was  a  pretty  little  slipper,  with  a 
tiny  blue  rosette.  I  thought  to  myself  what  "would  have 
happened  had  my  mother  entered  and  found  it  there. 
The  little  incident  made  me  very  careful,  and  I  gave  my 
darling  child-wife  much  ofience  by  it.  I  smile  and  sigh 
as  I  tell  you,  that  I  slept  with  the  shoe  under  my  piEow 
all  night.  For  some  days  afterward  I  did  not  meeti  her 
out-of-doors,  and  when  in  the  evening  I  saw  her,  the 
beautiful  blue  eyes  would  fill  with  tears. 

'"Are  you  learning  to  love  me  less,  Bertrand t^"  sht 
irould  say,  and  my  answer  was  always:  "      ' 


THE  duke's  secret.  ff 

**  *No;  but  a  thousand  times  more.' 

"  *  Why  are  you  so  much  more  careful  ?  Tou  never 
speak  to  me  when  you  meet  me,'  she  would  say.  *  How  is 
it?' 

" '  Because  the  more  I  love  yo-j,  the  more  I  dread  any- 
thing that  could  part  us.' 

"  I  began  to  think  that  I  must  soon  keep  my  promise, 
and  look  out  for  a  suitable  villa  for  my  young  wife.  I 
could  always  get  away  from  home  when  I  liked,  and  I  be- 
gan to  think  it  would  be  much  happier  and  less  irksome 
to  be  able  to  spend  three  or  four  days  with  her  at  a  time, 
than  to  be  where  I  saw  her  every  day,  yet  was  never  one 
moment  at  ease  with  her.  It  would  be  much  better,  I 
decided,  and  we  should  run  less  risk  of  discovery. 

"  I  determined  to  mention  it  to  her,  to  ask  her  where 
she  would  like  to  go.  She  had  said  once  :  *  To  the  banks 
of  the  Thames ' — and  that  would  have  suited  me  well ;  I 
could  see  her  very  much  oftener  if  she  lived  somesvhere 
near  town  than  if  she  lived  further  away.  I  talked  to  her 
about  it  and  she  was  delighted.  *  It  will  have  its  pleasures 
and  its  pains,  Bertrand,'  she  said.  '  Now  I  enjoy  living  at 
Rood  Castle  ;  because  you  are  here,  it  seems  like  heaven 
to  me.  I  say  to  myself  that  I  am  within  hearing  of  the 
same  sounds,  that  at  times  I  am  near  you;  I  see  you  cross 
the  gardens  and  the  parks,  I  hear  the  sound  of  your 
horse's  feet,  sometimes  you  sing  or  you  whistle  as  you  go 
down  the  hall  and  then  my  heart  goes  out  to  you.  Then 
there  are  the  pains  ;  I  see  you  and  you  can  not  speak  to 
me  ;  I  see  others  talking  to  you,  and  I — your  own  wife — 
can  not  get  near  you  nor  dare  utter  a  word  or  even  look 
at  your  face.' 

"  '  It  is  an  equal  pain  to  me,'  I  replied.  '  I  am  STire  we 
shall  be  much  happier  in  a  home  of  our  own,* 

"  *  And  when  ?  '  she  asked  me,  with  unlimited  trust  and 
confidence  on  her  child-Hke  face,  '  when  shall  you  tell  the 
duke  and  duchess  about  our  marriage  ? '  I  told  her  that 
I  did  not  know,  for  that  as  I  loved  her  more,  I  grew  more 
alarmed  at  having  to  part  from  her. 

" '  But,'  she  said,  'you  told  me  that  when  we  were  mar- 
ried nothing  on  eai'th  could  part  us.' 

"'Nor  can  it,'  I  replied.  'Nor  shall  it— ^but  I  alway« 
have  a  dread  of  my  mother's  influence.' 

♦•  I  went  up  to  London  and  found  just  wfeat  I  wanted— 


68  THE  duke's  secret. 

on  the  banks  of  the  river — a  beautiful,  poetical  looking 
villa,  with  large,  light  rooms  full  of  sunshine  and  glorious 
views  from  all  the  windows,  a  perfect  bower  of  trees,  the 
gardens  full  of  flower,  the  prettiest  of  fountains,  a  good 
conservatory — everything  most  delightful  and  charming. 
I  at  once  decided  upon  having  it.  It  was  called  River- 
view,  and  I  knew  that  my  darling  would  be  delighted  with 
it.  I  was  full  of  spirits  and  high  glee  as  I  traveled  home 
again;  I  busied  myself  in  thinking  how  she  should  have 
the  delight  of  furnishing  it  for  herself  and  to  suit  her  own 
taste.  I  could  imagine  the  blue  eyes  filled  with  delight, 
the  beautiful  face  full  of  love  and  happiness;  my  whole 
heart  went  out  to  her.  I  longed  to  see  her,  to  tell  her  all 
my  plans  for  our  happiness.  No  train  had  surely  ever 
gone  so  slowly  as  this. 

"  As  I  traveled  home  I  remember,  too,  that  I  said  to 
myself  there  was  no  happiness  on  earth  equal  to  that  of 
having  a  beautiful,  loving  wife.  I  decided  in  my  own 
mind  that  neither  fortune,  title,  position,  nor  any  worldly 
honors  could  be  put  into  comparison  with  the  one  great 
gift  of  a  true  heart.  I  reached  Rood  Castle  at  the  close 
of  a  bright  day,  and  the  very  sight  of  the  grand  old 
towers  rising  in  the  distance  stirred  my  heart  with  an 
emotion  I  had  never  felt  before.  There  dwelt  my  wife — 
my  beautifid  girl- wife — and  in  a  few  hours  I  should 
clasp  her  to  my  heart  while  I  told  her  all  about  her  new 
and  beautiful  home. 

"  It  seemed  to  me  that  midnight  would  never  come, 
that  the  time  would  never  pass,  that  I  should  never  kiss 
my  young  wife's  face,  or  hear  her  voice  again.  I  was 
consumed  with  impatience. 

"  My  mother  thought  I  was  ill,  and  would  insist  on  be- 
ing kind  to  me ;  my  father  wanted  to  know  all  the  news 
from  town — if  I  had  met  any  one,  what  they  were  talking 
about  at  the  clubs — until,  well,  I  saw  the  only  thing  was 
to  assume  a  perfectly  calm  and  quiet  demeanor.  When 
I  did  that  they  ceased  talking,  and  I  was  soon  at  liberty 
to  go  to  my  study.  I  had  pleased  myself  in  purchasing 
BO  many  pretty  httle  things  for  her.  I  dare  not  bring 
anything  either  expensive  or  elaborate,  but  I  had  brought 
her  everything  good,  and  it  delighted  me  so  to 
spread  out  all  these  presents  on  the  table — cuffs  and 
soUftrs  of  real  costly  lace,  handkerchiefs  fine  as  finest 


THE  dttke's  secbet.  C9 

lace,  fans,  parasols — everything  quiet  and  simple,  such  as 
svould  not  be  out  of  keeping  with  her  position  as  mistress 
of  Riverview.  Then  I  listened,  waiting  at  the  door  for 
her.  I  must  break  my  narrative  just  to  teU  you  that  my 
mother  had  a  waiting  maid,  a  Frenchwoman,  Sidonie  by 
name,  who  was  always  quite  willing  to  give  me  a  smile, 
and  gave  me  to  understand,  in  one  or  two  little  ways, 
that  she  was  not  a  prude. 

"  I  am  no  coxcomb,  no  flirt — I  do  not  mean  to  say  that 
the  Frenchwoman  was  in  love  with  me,  but  she  liked  me 
sufficiently  to  be  jealous  and  watchful.  This  night  as  I 
stood  there  watching  for  Naomi,  to  my  great  astonish- 
ment Sidonie  came  to  the  door  of  my  study.  True,  my 
mother  had  sent  her  to  ask  me  a  simple  question;  I  re^ 
membei  now  that  it  was  the  loan  of  a  new  book  that  I 
had  brought  from  London.  I  know  that  if  she  entered 
the  room  she  would  see  all  that  I  had  bought  for  my  dar- 
hng;  the  only  plan  was  to  shut  the  door.  She  looked  aa 
though  she  were  not  altogether  disinclined  for  a  little  bad- 
inage, but  my  great  anxiety  was  to  get  rid  of  her.  What  if 
Naomi  should  cross  the  picture-galley  while  she  waa 
there  ?  I  closed  the  door,  leaving  her  standing  outside, 
hastily  found  the  book,  and  took  it  to  her.  She  looked 
at  me,  and  I  felt  quite  sure  that  I  read  suspicion  in  her 
face;  there  was  a  cruel,  subtle  flash  of  light  in  her  dark 
eyes — a  satirical,  demure  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  '  I  thank  you,  my  lord,'  said  she;  '  I  am  sorry  to  have 
disturbed  you.  Her  grace  wished  me  sometime  smce  to 
fetch  the  book,  but  I  had  forgotten  it.' 

"  I  had  closed  the  door  and  was  standing  outside  it,  lest 
even  through  the  least  opening  she  should  see  what  was 
inside.  She  gave  a  peculiar  look  at  the  closed  door,  and 
with  a  low  coxirtesy  went  away.  I  was  thankful  to  see  her 
gone  before  Naomi  crossed  the  picture-gallery,  but  I  had 
a  curious  kind  of  instinct  that  it  was  a  misfortune  that 
henceforth  she  would  be  my  enemy.  A  woman  of  that 
class,  I  beheve  most  honestly,  never  forgives  a  man  who 
slights  or  refuses  the  advances  she  makes. 

"  A  few  minutes  later  on,  I  saw  the  shining  of  the  taper 
my  darling  held;  it  was  but  just  in  time — Sidonie  had  but 
just  gone,  and  then  I  hastened  to  meet  her.  One  such 
moment  atoned  for  all.  I  can  remember  the  rapture  of 
delieht  as  I  kissed  the  sweet,  upturned  face,  and  heard 


70  THE  DUKF'^  secret. 

her  say  how  she  had  longed  to  see  me  again.  Then  t 
showed  her  all  my  pretty  presents,  and  I  shall  never  for- 
get her  innocent  pleasiire  and  delight — she  could  not  be- 
lieve all  these  were  hers. 

"  '  They  are  too  good  for  me,  Bertrand,'  she  would  say, 
*  I  never  had  anything  like  them  in  my  life.* 

"  '  You  forget,  my  dear,'  I  said,  *  that  nothing  could  be 
good  enough  for  you.  You  are  Lady  St.  Albans,  and 
worthy  of  the  most  costly  gifts  a  king  could  offer  you.' 

"  That  which  pleased  her  most  was  a  small  silver  chain, 
with  a  silver  locket  containing  my  portrait.  I  would  fain 
have  bought  it  for  her  of  gold  and  diamonds,  but  that 
would  have  attracted  attention ;  the  plain  pretty  silver 
was  what  thousands  of  girls  in  her  position  wore.  I 
clasped  it  round  her  snow-white  neck,  and  she  kissed  it 
with  such  dehght.  I  persuaded  her  to  try  on  all  the  pretty 
things  I  had  bought  for  her,  but  nothing  was  like  the 
locket. 

" '  That  is  just  what  I  have  longed  for,*  she  said, '  now 
I  can  see  your  face  whenever  I  will;  if  you  had  brought 
me  home  a  sea  of  pearls,  it  would  not  have  pleased  me  as 
this  does.' 

"So  we  spent  the  happiest  hours  of  our  lives  together. 
She  was  delighted  about  the  villa.  I  remember  that  as 
she  bade  me  good-night  she  held  a  white  handkerchief  in 
her  hand. 

" '  I  wiU  come  to-morrow  evening,  Bertrand,'  she  said, 
'and  hear  all  about  Riverview.' 

"Ah,  Heaven  1  if  I  could  have  foreseen  what  the  morrow 
would  bring  1  " 
i 

CHAPTER   7L 

THB       niBCOVBRT. 

"  TmBRB  is  one  thing  that  I  must  tell  you,  because  it 
explains  much  of  what  follows.  I  suppose  that  all  lovers 
are  more  or  less  foolish.  In  fact,  it  is  part  and  parcel  of 
the  happiest,  but  least  wise  portions  of  one's  life.  To  be 
fooUsh,  then,  is  to  be  natural,  and  our  folly  consisted  in 
always  making  and  repeating  vows  now,  to  love  each 
other,  to  be  faithful  to  each  other,  to  love  each  other  until 
after  death  and  beyond  the  grave,  and  one  evening  a 
foioautio  notion  of  love  and  secrecy  came  over  me.    X 


'  THE  duke's  SECEET.  71 

wanted  to  feel  sure  nothing  would  ever  make  Naomi  break 
her  vow  of  silence  to  me.  It  was  one  of  those  beautiful, 
pure  evenings  when  the  very  breath  of  the  woods  was 
sweet  as  heaven  itself.  I  had  bought  her  a  beautiful 
little  saiDphire  ring  ;  it  shone  on  her  white  hand  that 
tiight,  but  I  never  saw  it  there  again. 

" '  Sapphire  means  truth  and  constancy,'  I  said  to  her, 
fcs  I  slipped  it  on  the  beautiful  hand  ;  '  I  want  to  test 
jrour  truth  and  constancy  to  me ;  I  want  you  take  an 
oath.' 

" '  There  can  be  no  test  I  cannot  stand,'  she  said,  and  I 
believed  her.  It  was  all  lover's  nonsense,  you  know, 
Euskyn  ;  I  could  not  help  it.  It  was  more  sweet  and 
toore  foolish  than  anything  I  have  ever  done  since. 

"  *  I  want  you,'  I  said,  '  to  take  a  solemn  oath  to  me  that 
toothing  shall  induce  you  ever  to  reveal  the  secret  of  oux 
toarriage,  and  I  place  the  sapphire  ring,  the  seal  of  truth, 
to  your  finger,  to  keep  in  pledge  of  your  vow.' 

" '  I  will  do  as  you  wish,'  she  said;  '  I  swear  to  you  most 
Solemnly,  in  the  presence  of  Heaven,  that  I  will  never, 
under  any  circumstances  whatever,  break  the  silence  I 
have  sworn,  unless  I  have  your  wish  and  permission.' 

"  *  Swear  to  me,  Naomi,  that  neither  torture  nor  death 
will  ever  make  you  break  it.' 

"  *  I  swear ! '  she  said.     But  yet  I  was  not  satisfied. 

" '  Suppose,'  I  said,  'that  it  were  possible  for  any  com- 
bination of  circumstances  to  happen  by  which  we  were 
suspected,  would  you  tell  the  secret  of  our  love  and  mar- 
riage even  to  save  yourself  from  suspicion  ? ' 

"She  was  quite  silent  for  a  few  minutes;  then  she  said: 

"'No;  I  would  sacrifice  even  my  fair  name,  if  it 
pleased  you  that  I  should  keep  my  secret  a  secret  stilL' 

" '  You  would  really  do  that,  Naomi  ? '  I  said — *  you 
love  me  enough  for  that  ?  You  would  sacrifice  your  fair 
name  rather  than  tell  that  which  I  wish  you  to  conceal  ? ' 

" '  You  know  that  I  wovdd,  Bertrand,  a  thousand  times 
over ! '  she  replied;  and,  though  I  never  anticipated  it,  the 
time  came  when  she  stood  the  test  more  nobly  and  gen- 
erously than  any  other  woman  could  have  done. 

"  I  have  often  wondered  since  if  the  fatal  catastrophe 
which  happened  was  caused  by  the  jealous  watchfidness 
imd  scrutiny  of  Sidonie,  or  whether  it  was  cai-elessness  on 


72  THE  duke's  secret. 

the  part  of  my  girl- wife.  I  have  never  known  whether  it 
was  one  or  both  of  these  causes. 

"The  next  night  when  Naomi  came,  I  thought  she 
looked  very  lovely  ;  round  her  white  neck  and  arms  she 
wore  some  of  the  lace  I  had  brought  her,  and  I  remem- 
ber— ah  I  so  well — that  she  wore,  too,  a  beautiful  breast- 
knot  of  richly  tinted  mauve  ribbon.  I  complimented  her 
on  looking  so  well,  Httle  dreaming  where  I  should  seo 
that  breast-knot  again. 

"  We  talked  a  long  time  that  evening  about  the  villa, 
and  the  home  which  was  to  be  hers,  little  dreaming  that 
we  should  never  talk  there  again.  I  remember  particu- 
larly that  among  other  things  she  said  I  did  not  look  as 
well  as  usual,  and  I  answered  that  I  was  tired.  Laugh- 
ingly she  said  that  was  a  hint  for  her  to  go,  adding — and 
the  words  came  home  to  me  afterward  like  a  sharp  sword 
— that  it  was  her  own  faxdt  she  was  there  that  evening. 

"You  did  not  ask  me,"  she  said  ;  'I  have  volunteered 
to  come.*  And  I  replied  how  dearly  I  wished  she  sat  in 
my  room  all  day  long. 

"  You  will  see  afterward  why  I  mention  this.  She  was 
with  me  more  than  two  hours  that  evening,  and  I  remem- 
ber feeling  that  I  could  never  part  from  her — that  I  must 
hold  her  in  my  arms  there  until  I  died  ;  I  could  not  let 
her  go.  I  saw  that  she  grew  nervous  as  it  grew  later, 
and  I  said  : 

"  '  You  are  growing  tired  of  me,  Naomi.' 

"  *  Indeed,  I  am  not,  Bertrand,  ;  I  could  never  tire  of 
you.    I  am  just  a  Httle  nervous  about  getting  back  again.' 

"  •  Why  should  you  be  that?'  I  asked.  *  You  never  have 
been  nervous.' 

"  She  laughed,  my  sweet,  simple  darling.  Ah  1  though 
it  is  so  long  since,  I  can  not  tell  you  without  tears.  She 
laughed,  and  told  me  that  she  had  dreamed  so  often, 
as  she  was  making  her  way  back,  she  met  a  tall  female 
figure  shrouded  in  black,  that  at  la«t  she  had  grown 
nervous  and  afraid  to  go  back. 

'"It  is  nothing  but  a  dream,  Naomi/  I  fiaid ;  'and 
what  is  a  dream?' 

"  I  remember  being  so  struck  by  her  answer. 

"  *  A  dream,*  she  replied,  '  is  the  shadow  of  fire.* 

"I  remember  how  we  stood  together,  looking  across 
the  picture-gallery,  where  the  dead  and  gone  Castlemajnes 


THE  duke's  secbet.  73 

looked  at  us  from  the  walls — how  I  held  her  in  my  arms, 
feeHn^  that  I  could  not  let  her  go. 

"  '  You  will  remember,  then/  I  said,  *  that  Riyerview 
is  taken.  You  must  tell  my  mother,  in  the  course  of  a 
few  days,  that  you  intend  to  leave.  And  now  good-night, 
my  darling,'  I  said. 

"  Ah,  Heaven,  it  was  not  only  good-night,  but  good-bye. 

"  I  watched  her  as  she  crossed  the  long  gallery,  little 
dreaming  that  I  should  watch  her  so  no  more.  She  car- 
ried a  candle  in  her  hand,  and  the  light  fell  on  her  most 
beautiful  young  face,  and  I  remember  that  she  looked 
pale,  and  that  the  brilliance  of  it  was  dimmed;  and  then 
I  went  to  the  rest  that  was  mine  for  the  last  time  that 
night  for  many  years  to  come." 

The  dxike  paused,  and  the  lawyer  saw  great  drops  ol 
perspiration  standing  on  his  face. 

"  I  could  sooner  almost  die,  Kuskyn,  than  tell  you  the 
rest,"  he  said.  "  I  loathe  myself;  I  hate  myself  when  I 
think  of  it.  I  can  not  beheve  that  I  did  it.  I  know  that 
if  I  had  to  judge  another  for  the  same  conduct,  I  should 
put  him  down  as  the  most  contemptible  coward  that  ever 
lived.  I  can  not  explain.  I  do  not  even  know  why  I  did 
as  I  did." 

He  stopped  again,  and  again  the  lawyer  saw  him  wipe 
the  great  drops  of  perspiration  from  his  brow.  Again  he 
paced  with  hurried  footsteps  the  little  room. 

"  I  can  hardly  bring  myself  to  tell  it,"  he  said.  "  I  feel 
as  though  the  finger  of  shame  was  pointing  at  me,  and 
her  breath  flashing  hot  on  my  face.  I  must  tell  you,  and 
you  must  despise  me  as  you  will. 

"  That  morning  I  was  engaged  in  some  pursuit  of  my 
own,  when  my  mother  sent  for  me  to  her  boudoir.  Now, 
to  those  who  knew  the  duchess,  a  summons  to  her  boudoir  is 
not  a  very  pleasant  thing;  it  meant  mischief  always  in  one 
shape  or  another.  The  duke  dreaded  it,  and  I  disliked  it. 
The  riot  act  was  always  read  to  us  there.  The  moment 
I  heard  where  I  was  wanted,  my  heart  misgave  me;  but  I 
consoled  myself  by  saying  that  of  the  only  secret  I  had  in 
the  world  she  could  not  possibly  know  anything — as  for 
anything  else  it  coiold  not  matter. 

"I  did  not  hurry,  but  the  laws  of  the  Medes  and  Per- 
sians were  as  nothing  compared  to  the  wishes  of  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne.    I  knew  sooner  or  later  I  must 


t4  TRS  DtTKE^S  8201BT. 

go,  and  sooner  or  later  I  must  bear  ^laai  ak&  had  to  say; 
I  went,  trying  to  make  myself  sure  it  could  be  noth- 
ing of  any  consequence — certainly  nothing  I  need  fear. 

"  It  was  strange,  grown  man  as  I  was,  I  dreaded  my 
mother.  Her  least  frown  or  angry  word  had  a  great  effect 
upon  me.  I  do  not  offer  that  as  any  excuse  for  what  I 
did;  nothing  can  excuse  that. 

"  You  can  imagine  my  horror.  At  first  when  I  opened 
the  door  I  saw  only  my  mother,  standing  with  an  angry, 
indignant  face  that  startled  me.  Can  you  imagine  my 
horror  when,  looking  a  little  further  on,  I  saw  my  beauti- 
ful girl- wife  kneeling  on  the  ground  ?  Her  face  all  wet 
with  tears,  her  beautiful  blue  eyes  all  drowned  and  sad — • 
our  eyes  met.  Looking  further  on  to  the  table,  I  saw  a 
little  white  handkerchief  and  a  little  knot  of  ribbons  that 
she  had  worn  the  night  before. 

"In  one  moment  I  guessed  what  had  happened.  Peo- 
pie  say  that  when  a  man  is  drowning  all  the  events  of  hia 
life  pass  in  review  before  his  eyes  in  a  few  seconds.  I 
can  only  say  for  my  part,  that  during  the  moment  that  J 
stood  looking  at  that  knot  of  ribbon,  the  whole  case  came 
before  me.  I  saw  that  my  mother  was  so  angry  that  any 
attempt  at  telling  her  the  truth  must  end  disastrously  for 
both  of  us,  and  that  our  only  chance  in  the  future  was  to 
keep  our  secret  for  the  present.  I  saw  that  at  once  ;  yet 
I  might  have  done  differently — I  am  quite  sure  that  I 
could. 

"Of  course  the  first  question  was,  had  I  seen  these 
things  before,  and  could  I  tell  how  it  was  that  they  had 
been  found  in  my  room.  I  shall  never  forget  the  pain  that 
it  gave  me — not  for  myself,  but  lest  we  should  be  parted. 

"  I  tried  to  laugh  it  off  carelessly,  and  said  I  did  not 
know.  My  mother  pressed  the  question  home.  I  saw 
my  darling's  face  growing  whiter  and  whiter,  and  her 
eyes  had  a  mute  appealing  look  that  broke  my  heart  in 
twain.  I  said  to  myself  that  I  must  steel  my  heart 
against  it,  that  discovery  meant  death  by  separation  to 
both  of  us.  What  my  proud  mother  could  do  I  did  not 
know,  but  I  felt  sure  that  she  would  part  us. 

"It  was  not  all  cowardice  that  made  me  do  as  I  did;  if 
by  braving  my  mother's  anger  I  could  have  made  sure  of 
my  young  wife,  I  would  have  braved  it,  but  I  knew  that 
her  anger  meant  separation — there  was  no  doubt  of  it.    X 


''^  THE  duke's  SECBET.  7$ 

tried  to  answer  her  carelessly,  until  she  turned  from  me 
with  impatient  contempt,  and  said  I  was  screening  a  love- 
sick girl.  Have  you  ever  heard  a  proud,  angry  woman 
scold  ?    It  is  well  for  you  if  you  have  not. 

"My  mother's  anger  reached  a  great  length;  she  said 
cruel,  shameful  things  to  Naomi.  Ah,  Heaven,  my  sweet, 
patient,  innocent  darling!  My  mother's  wrath  waxed 
higher.  I  must  tell  you  that  horrible  Frenchwoman  had 
foiind  Naomi's  handkerchief  in  my  room,  and  then  had 
set  herself  to  watch;  she  had  seen  Naomi  go  to  my  room 
and  had  seen  her  come  out  again,  so  there  was  no  deny-  / 
ing  the  evidence  against  us,  none  in  the  world ;  nor 
could  we  explain  it. 

"  When  my  mother  said  that  she  was  shameless,  and 
that  she  had  forfeited  her  character,  my  darling  looked 
up  at  me  ;  she  said  nothing  for  some  time,  but  when  the 
proud,  cruel  words  stung  her  to  the  heart  she  folded  her 
hands  like  one  praying,  and  raised  them  to  me  : 

*"  I  appeal  to  you.  Lord  St.  Albans,'  she  said.  That 
was  all — there  were  no  entreaties,  no  prayers — those 
simple  words — '  I  appeal  to  you.' 

"  I  felt  them  ;  they  flashed  into  the  most  sacred  depths 
of  my  soul,  but  I  steeled  my  heart  against  them.  If  I 
told  all  now  we  shoidd  be  parted,  and  I  could  not  bear 
to  be  parted  from  her — I  could  not  bear  it. 

"  I  said  to  myself  that  my  darhng  would  understand — 
that  she  would  know  all  would  be  right — that  she  loved 
me  enough  to  bear  all  judgment  and  suspicion  for  my 
sake,  as  I  would  have  done — ah,  so  fully,  so  freely,  for 
hers.  I  knew  that  in  her  heart  she  must  know  that  to 
tell  my  mother  the  truth  would  be  to  part  us  for  ever  and 
ever. 

"  I  believed  that  she  understood  it,  but  in  the  presence 
of  the  duchess,  my  mother,  I  could  say  nothing  to  her — 
only  say  to  her  that  all  would  be  right—hoping  she  would 
understand." 

CHAPTER  YU. 

A.     BURNING     LETTER. 

"I  KNOW  what  I  ought  to  have  done;  there  can  be  but  j 
one  opinion  about  that.  I  ought  then  and  there,  in  my  l 
mother's  presence,  to  have  declared  the  truth,  and  owned  1 
•h«  wsM  my  wife.    After  the  strong  evidence  brought  ' 


76  THE  duke's  seceet. 

against  her,  it  was  the  only  thing  to  be  done;  it  was  the 
only  thing  that  could  clear  her  and  vindicate  her  charac- 
ter. But  will  you  believe  that  I  was  mean  enough  to  feci 
a  certain  pride  in  the  beautiful  and  unsel&sh  affection  she 
showed  for  me  ?  I  saw  that  she  would  suffer  anything — 
loss  of  fair  name,  of  character,  of  honor,  ay,  even  of  life — 
rather  than  betray  me  or  break  the  vow  she  had  made.  I 
read  her  faith  and  resolve — her  generous  constancy  in  the 
iook  of  her  eyes — in  the  light  that  shone  in  her  face,  clear, 
high,  noble  resolve.  Then  I  had  no  more  fear;  all  woidd 
be  right;  she  would  never  betray  me;  all  would  go  welL 
But  my  mother's  anger  grew  and  increased. 

"  She  declared  that  Naomi  Wynter  should  leave  the 
Castle  at  once,  that  she  should  dismiss  her  without  char- 
acter, and  that  if  she  dared  to  appeal  to  her  she  would 
denounce  her  everywhere  as  trying  to  allure  her  son. 
I  knew  my  face  went  burning  hot,  then  deadly  pale,  my 
hands  trembled,  my  fingers  clinched  themselves.  I 
would  have  given  the  world  to  have  stood  forward  and 
said: 

" '  Mother,  this  is  my  wife  ;  speak  kindly  to  her,  and 
do  her  justice.' 

"But  the  fear  of  losing  her  and  the  dread  of  my 
mother  restrained  me.  What  matter,  after  all,  if  she  did 
send  her  away,  I  should  soon  have  a  beautiful  home  for 
her,  and  my  wife  woidd  want  no  character. 

"  It  was  but  a  momentary  ordeal !  If  she  were  sent 
away  I  would  install  her  in  her  new  home  to-morrow 
without  fail.  I  would  see  her  before  she  went ;  one  word 
with  her  would  make  all  right  again  ;  that  word  I  could 
speak  the  moment  I  left  my  mother's  presence. 

"  I  would  go  to  her,  teU  her  where  to  go,  and  follow 
her  to-morrow — then  take  her  home  to  Riverview.  So 
sure  was  I  of  doing  this  that  the  interview,  painful  as  it 
was,  seemed  only  to  me  like  the  prologue  before  the  play. 

"But,  as  I  have  told  you,  my  mother  became  more  and 
more  angry  ;  her  words  were  like  hot  lashes  that  stung, 
and  after  the  worst  of  them  my  wife  turned  to  me  once 
again,  with  upraised  face  and  folded  hands. 

"  'Lord  St.  Albans,'  she  said,  *I  appeal  to  you.* 

"  And  once  more  I  stood  mute  and  dumb  under  her  ap- 
peal; onc«  more — ph,  Seaven,  f  org^ivo  m^-^l  said  to  hex 


THE  dtjke's  secbet.  77 

with  a  confused  and  embarrassed  air  that  it  would  be  all 
right,  hoping  she  would  understand. 

"  The  look  she  gave  me  will  never  leave  me  while  I  live. 
It  was  not  reproachful,  not  angry,  but  fuU  of  sweet,  wist- 
ful wonder.  One  word  would  have  set  her  straight  be- 
fore that  proud,  haughty  woman  who  was  trampling  her 
under  foot;  one  word  would  have  smitten  my  mother  si- 
lent and  dumb,  would  have  humiliated  her,  and  com- 
pelled her,  in  justice,  to  ask  pardon  of  my  beautiful,  in- 
nocent young  wife ;  that  word  might  also  have  parted  us 
forever.  If  I  left  it  unspoken,  I  could  go  on  the  morrow 
and  spend  a  week  with  her.  I  could  heal  all  her  wounds 
and  make  her  happier  than  she  had  ever  been  in  her  life 
before.  If  I  spoke  it,  my  mother  had  the  power  to  part 
us,  and  I  knew  not  how  or  when  we  should  meet  again; 
it  was  the  most  cowardly,  but,  to  my  thinking,  the  safest 
plan.  So  I  made  no  answer,  and  then — Ah,  me,  shall  I 
ever  forget  the  change  that  came  over  my  wife. 

"A  certain  sad  and  mournful  dignity  seemed  to  in- 
fold her.  The  tears  still  lay  on  her  face,  hke  clear  pearls. 
She  came  forward  a  step  or  two  to  meet  my  mother,  as  it 
were.  I  shall  never  again  hear  in  any  voice  the  sad,  un- 
uttered  reproach  there  was  in  hers — never  again  I 

"  *  Madame,'  she  said  to  the  duchess,  '  your  son  is  not 
to  blame.  I  take  the  whole  blame  upon  myself.  I  own 
that  I  went  to  his  study  last  evening  to  talk  to  him,  and 
I  distinctly  assert  that  he  did  not  ask  me,  that  I  went  by 
my  own  suggestion  and  not  by  his.' 

"  You  will  remember  that  we  had  laughed  at  her  having 
invited  herself  that  evening  instead  of  my  having  done  it. 
I  wonder  my  mother  was  not  struck  by  her  calm,  digni- 
fied attitude,  her  gracefiil,  girlish  simplicity  ;  but  she 
was  not.  Her  clear,  sweet  "V'oice  with  its  plaintive  melan- 
choly, thrilled  me. 

"  *  I  take  the  whole  blame  upon  myself,  your  grace/ 
she  said  ;  *  I  am  in  fault.* 

" '  I  thought  so,'  said  my  mother,  in  a  satirical  accent. 
*  I  am  almost  glad  to  know  it.' 

"  I  know  what  you  think,  Buskyn — a  lash  across  the 
face  would  be  the  just  reward  of  my  conduct.  Heaven 
knows  what  bitter  lashes  of  scorn  have  been  curled  round 
my  heart — Heaven  knows ! 

I  ought,  there  and  then,  at  all  risk,  to  have  declared  th« 


7ft  TftE  duke's  SICMW. 

truth;  but  the  tragedy  was  fast  approaching  its  cliMal 
now.  My  mother  told  us  to  say  farewell,  for  we  should 
never  meet  on  earth  again.  I  laughed  to  myself  as  I  said 
that  to-morrow  I  should  be  with  her,  never  to  leave  her 
again.  I  was  proud  of  her  courage,  her  fidelity,  and  her 
truth — proud  of  her  devotion  to  me,  and  her  self-sacrifice 
— proud,  ah,  miserable  wretch  that  I  was !  I  had  better 
have  hidden  myself  under  the  earth — miserable  coward  I 
— to  take  advantage  of  a  woman's  self-sacrifice  1 

"I  said  good-bye  to  her,  trying  to  make  her  under- 
stand that  it  would  only  be  until  to-morrow — whether  she 
understood  me  or  not  I  can  not  tell. 

"  Then  my  mother,  with  more  pride,  hauteur,  and  disdain 
than  she  had  ever  shown  to  me  in  her  life  before,  pointed 
to  the  door  and  said  : 

« 'Go !' 

"I  went.  It  did  not  occur  to  me  that  Naomi  would  be 
sent  away  that  very  hour,  yet  I  thought  it  better  not  to 
lose  one  moment.  I  went  to  the  school-room — the  room 
she  always  used — and  found  Lady  Neil  there.  I  sent  her 
to  ask  Naomi  to  come  to  me,  but  I  know  now  the  message 
was  never  delivered  to  her. 

"  Sidonie  was  on  guard,  so  that  you  may  imagine  I  had 
little  chance.  Then  I  wrote  to  her,  and  sent  the  letter  by 
Lady  Nell,  and  the  insolent  French  maid  returned  it,  say- 
ing that  if  I  sent  again  she  would  appeal  to  the  duchesa 

"  I  went  myself,  but  even  the  door  of  the  corrider  was 
locked  this  time;  I  could  not  get  near  the  room.  I  would 
have  gone  after  her  to  the  station,  but  I  knew  that  would 
bring  fresh  misery  upon  her.  I  did  what  seemed  to  me 
best.  I  called  for  my  valet,  Gaston  Leduc,  the  shrewdest, 
sharpest  man  I  know.  I  told  him  quickly  to  follow  her, 
and,  never  leave  sight  of  her  until  she  was  settled  in  some 
place  or  other;  then  to  telegraph  me. 

"  He  obeyed  me  implicitly,  but  he  made  a  great  mistake. 
She  went,  poor  child,  to  Grimes's  Hotel,  London  Bridge; 
why  she  went  there,  for  what  reason  or  purpose,  I  have 
never  been  able  to  imagine.  Leduc  sent  me  a  telegram 
from  there,  saying  where  she  was;  then,  after  skillfully 
carrying  out  my  idea,  made  the  one  great  blunder  which 
has  marred  my  life.  Instead  of  remaining  there  until  I 
reached  the  hotel,  thinking  she  was  sure  to  remain,  h« 
made  a  fatal  mistake,  and  came  home. 


y  TEE  duke's   secret.  7f 

"  To  that  one  single  mistake  may  be  attributed  the 
whole  misfortune  of  my  life;  if  he  had  rejoined  her,  I 
must  in  the  common  course  of  things  have  found  out 
■where  she  was,  and  have  followed  her.  As  it  was,  I  lost 
sight  of  her  then,  and  I  have  never  seen  her  since.  I  was 
almost  mad  when  I  reached  the  hotel  and  found  her  gone 
— almost  mad !  I  traced  her  as  far  as  the  London  Bridge 
railway  station,  but  I  could  not  hear  more  of  her.  I 
oflfered  any  and  every  kind  of  reward.  I  do  not  hesitate 
to  say  that  I  have  left  no  one  thing  undone  to  find  her, 
but  quite  in  vain;  from  the  time  she  was  last  seen  on  the 
platform  of  the  railway  station,  she  seems  to  haye  vau- 
iahed  entirely  from  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"  But — and  this  is  the  most  awful  thing  of  all — I  have 
heard  from  her  once;  the  letter  was  sent  to  me  at  Bood 
Castle,  and  the  post-mark  was  London.  It  was  well  de- 
served, but  the  most  cruel  letter.  I  have  brought  it  here 
for  you  to  see." 

The  lawyer  took  it  from  the  duke's  hand ;  the  hand- 
writing was  clear  and  delicate,  the  paper  was  worn  at  the 
edges,  as  though  it  had  often  been  read  and  reread. 
'There  was  neither  address,  date,  nor  commencement ;  the 
words  were  cold  and  brief  : 

"  When  you  stood  silent  while  your  mother  defamed 
me — when  you  stood  mute  when  I  was  sent  like  the  vilest 
of  the  vile,  from  your  roof,  and  you  never  spoke  the  word 
that  would  have  cleared  me,  you  died  to  me.  I  write 
from  no  wish  to  renew  even  the  faintest  memory  of  my- 
self in  your  heart.  I  have  debated  with  myself  long 
enough  whether  I  should  write  or  not.  Honor,  and  I 
believe  justice,  say  yes.  I  write  to  tell  you  that  the  wife 
whose  reputation  you  allow  to  be  ruined,  without  raising 
your  voice  to  save  her,  is  now  the  mother  of  your  son  and 
heir.  My  son  was  bom  two  months  since,  and  in  order 
that  there  should  never  be  any  mistake  or  error  about 
the  fact  of  his  birth,  I  went  back  to  lodgings  near  the 
church  where  we  were  married,  St.  Mary's  on  Quay, 
Southwark.  The  same  minister  who  married  us  baptised 
my  son,  and  you  will  find  the  baptismal  register  quite  cor- 
rect. I  have  given  him  one  of  your  old  family  names — '  Ai- 
red, son  of  Bertrand  St.  Albans  and  Naomi  St.  Albans,  net 
Wynter,  bom  February  16th,  18 — ,  baptised  March  9th. 
Wlt»es§ed  by  the  nurse,  Mary  Higgs.'    The  clergymai^, 


80  IBX  duke's  tJSOllT. 

the  Rev.  Stepnen  Duncan,  reinembered  our  wedding,  and 
asked  after  you.  I  told  hiin  you  were  dead,  but  I  did  not 
add — to  me.  Aired  lives  and  thrives,  but  I  have  taken 
him  where  you  will  never  see  him.  You,  whose  coward- 
ice ruined  me,  cannot  complain  if  you  have  lost  youi 
child  ;  it  is  the  just  and  righteous  retribution  of  Heaven 
that  the  man  who  spoke  no  word  to  save  his  wife  should 
never  see  his  child." 

There  the  letter  ended,  and  the  lawyer  laid  it  down 
with  a  perplexed  face,  and  looked  at  the  fire. 

"  It  transcends  all  that  I  have  heard  of  in  my  life,"  he 
said.     "  I  know  of  nothing  like  it." 

"  I  went  mad  again,"  said  the  duke.  "  I  went  at  once 
to  London,  to  Southwark,  and  such  a  search  as  I  made 
then  has  never  been  made  before  or  since.  I  went  to  the 
register  of  births  for  Southwark,  and  there  sure  enough 
I  found  an  entry  which  corresponded  with  the  church 
register. 

"There  I  found  the  address — ^Naomi  Si  Albans,  39 
Broom  Street,  Soutuwark. 

"  I  went  there,  but,  Ruskyn,  I  can  tell  you  no  more,  my 
brain  burns ;  give  me  some  water — I  am  ill." 

And  the  lawyer,  as  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  choice  old 
madeira,  thought  that  his  client,  his  story,  and  altogether 
were  the  queerest  he  had  ever  known. 

"  A  romance  of  the  peerage,  indeed,"  he  thought,  "  and 
one,  unless  I  am  much  mistaken,  that  wiU  end  badly." 

CHAPTER  Yin. 
MBS.  Stanley's  nabbative. 
"  I  MffiD  not  tell  you,  Ruskyn,  that  the  first  thing  J 
did  after  reading  the  register  was  to  drive  like  mad  to  39 
Broom  Street,  Southwark.  I  could  not  teU  what  my 
feelings  were  like  as  I  drove  through  the  streets;  I  was 
mad  with  impatience.  If  I  might  but  find  her  there  still, 
if  for  one  moment  I  might  look  on  the  beloved  face,  hold 
her  in  my  arms  and  look  at  my  child  ?  Ah,  Heaven,  if  I 
could  but  find  her  there.  Never  a  man  prayed  in  such 
desperation  before.  I  would  have  given  my  life  and  all 
it  contained  to  have  found  her.  If  she  were  there,  I 
would  kneel  at  her  feet,  and  never  leave  her  until  she  had 
iorgiven  me;  notjbing  should  part  us  again;  I  would  take 


r-  -  THE  duke's  segbet.  81 

her  straight  away  at  once,  with  her  child  in  her  arms,  to 
my  father  and  mother;  let  fate  do  its  worst.  The  courage, 
that  at  one  time  I  had  either  lost  or  had  not  possessed, 
was  mine  now.  I  felt  that  my  heart  was  on  fire,  yet,  when 
the  cab  stopped  at  the  number  in  Broom  Street,  I  could 
not  articulate,  and  the  woman  who  held  open  the  door 
looked  at  me  in  wonder. 

" '  You  are  ill,  sir,'  she  said,  before  I  had  time  to  t^ 
her  what  I  wanted. 

"  *  I  am  in  great  trouble,'  I  replied.  *  I  want  to  see  you. 
Are  you  Mrs.  Stanley,  the  mistress  of  the  house  ?  If  so, 
I  wish  to  speak  to  you.' 

"  '  I  am  Mrs.  Stanley,'  she  replied,  *  will  you  come  into 
the  parlor,  sir  ?' 

"  You  know  what  the  type  of  the  London  lodging- 
house  parlor  is,  Ruskyn,  a  small,  square  room,  with  horse- 
hair chairs,  a  small  table,  a  few  faded  pictures.  It  made 
me  shudder  to  think  that  my  dainty,  delicate  darling  had 
lired  in  this  miserable  place. 

"  The  landlady  motioned  me  to  take  a  seat  on  the  sofa, 
and  sat  down  herself  on  one  of  the  square  hard  chairs. 

"  *  I  want  to  ask  you,'  I  said,  '  if  you  have  had  a  young 
lady  boarding  here — a  Mrs.  St.  Albans  ?* 

**  Her  face  brightened  at  the  name. 

"  *  Yes,  we  had,  sir,'  she  answered. 

"  My  heart  stood  still,  and  my  lips  refused  to  open.  I 
wanted  to  ask  if  she  were  there  still,  but  the  sound  of  the 
words  would  not  come.     The  woman  went  on: 

"  *  She  was  here  with  me  for  some  weeks;  her  little  son 
was  born  here,  and  she  left  me  three  months  since.' 

"  *  Where  did  she  go  ?'  I  asked,  and  the  answer  slew 
every  hope  that  had  risen  in  my  heart 

" '  That  I  can  not  teU  you,  sir,  I  have  never  seen  or 
heard  anything  from  her  since  she  left  me.  I  did  hear 
her  once  say  she  would  go  to  America.' 

'"America,"  I  repeated;  'why,  what  would  take  her 
there?' 

"  'That  I  do  not  know,  sir;  it  was  one  day  when  we 
were  talking  about  the  little  boy.  I  can  not  at  all  remem- 
ber how  it  came  about;  but  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
she  would  ultimately  go  to  America.  I  suppose  we  mean 
the  same  lady,  sir.  She  was  a  widow;  she  wore  deep  crape 


88  THE  duke's  SECBET.  i 

aad  a  widow's  cap;  her  husband  died,  she  told  me,  a  week 
after  their  marriage.* 

"  Ruskyn,  I  swear  to  you  that  those  few  calm  words  al^ 
most  killed  me.  I  trembled  beneath  them  as  under  a  vio^ 
lent  blow. 

"  '  She  was  so  young,  poor  thing,  to  have  been  a  wife 
and  a  widow,  that  my  heart  ached  for  her.  I  think  she 
must  have  loved  her  husband  very  dearly,  for  I  never  saw 
her  that  she  was  not  in  tears.  I  have  heard  her  cry  through 
the  longest  nights;  his  death  has  been  a  terrible  blow  for 
her,  poor  child.  She  was  just  like  a  child  in  every  way,  so 
simple,  and  sweet,  and  loving  of  heart.' 

"  *  Tell  me  all  about  her,*  I  said.  *  I  am  a  relation  oi 
hers,  there  is  a  great  future  in  store  for  her.' 

"  *  I  knew  she  was  a  lady,  sir,  although  she  had  little 
money,  but  there  was  a  manner  and  distinction  about  her. 
I  have  not  much  to  tell  you,  sir;  only  that  one  morning  I 
was  busy  about  my  work,  as  usual,  and  the  card,  "  Apart- 
ment to  Let,"  was  in  the  window.  My  little  maid  came  to 
tell  me  that  a  lady  wanted  to  see  the  rooms. 

" '  This  room,  sir,"  she  added,  with  an  air  of  simple 
pride  in  its  possession,  '  and  one  up-stairs. 

" '  I  went  to  her,  and  found  a  most  beautiful  young 
lady;  she  had  a  lovely  face,  but  sadder  than  any  I  had 
ever  seen  before. 

" '  She  was  dressed  in  deepest  mourning,  and  while  she 
talked  to  me  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  She  told  me  that 
she  was  a  widow — her  husband  had  died  a  few  weeks  af- 
ter her  marriage — and  that  she  had  no  friend  or  relative 
whatever  in  the  wide  world.  She  expected  a  Uttle  child 
very  soon,  and  wanted  to  be  at  St.  Mary's  on  Quay,  when 
it  was  born. 

" '  My  rooms  would  just  suit  her,  she  said,  if  slue  could 
have  them  on  reasonable  terms. 

"  *  I  liked  her  at  once  for  her  fair,  sorrowful  young 
face.  I  knew  and  understood  what  she  suffered,  my  hus- 
band died  when  we  had  been  two  years  married,  and  I 
never  got  over  the  loss.  I  let  her  have  the  two  rooms 
for  as  little  as  I  could,  and  I  made  her  as  comfortable  as 
possible.  She  asked  me  to  find  her  a  nurse,  and  I  did 
80 — Mary  Higgs.  I  had  known  her  many  years,  and  she 
was  a  good  and  competent  nurse. 

'^ '  I  eng;a^ed  a  doctor— ^ne  thought  very  rnucl^  qI  ia 


fWE  DtlKE's  SECRET.  83 

this  neighborhood — Doctor  Fildene,  of  No.  9  Anchor 
Square.  She  was  here  three  or  four  weeks  before  the 
little  one  was  bom.' 

"  *  Tell  me  all  about  her,'  I  cried  ;  '  all  that  she  did 
during  that  time.' 

"'She  did  little  else  than  cry,  sir;  and  whenever  she 
went  out,  it  was  to  the  old  church  of  St.  Mary's  on  Quay. 
Some  repairs  were  going  on  in  the  transept,  and  the  door 
was  open  all  day.  I  have  found  her  there  after  seven  at 
night,  and  I  have  known  her  spend  whole  hours  there. 
What  she  did  I  can  not  tell — whether  it  was  prayer  or 
thought,  or  whether  she  had  some  association  with  the 
beautiful  old  church,  which  made  her  love  it  so.  All,  or  at 
at  least  quite  half  of  her  time  was  spent  there.  Very 
often  she  would  say  to  me  ;  "I  wish  I  might  be  buried 
here  ;  I  should  like  to  die  at  St.  Mary's  on  Quay."  I  told 
her  often  that  it  was  wrong  for  her  to  be  so  despondent. 
She  had  but  one  answer  for  me,  and  it  was  that  the  best 
part  of  her  was  dead. 

" '  You  must  know,  sir,'  continued  the  woman,  *  that  I 
never  enter  this  room  without  thinking  that  I  see  her 
here.  She  sat  in  that  little  chair  by  the  window ;  she 
never  read,  she  never  sewed,  she  never  took  the  least 
interest  in  anything.  I  believe  that  if  the  queen  and  all 
the  royal  court  had  passed  through  the  streets  she  would 
not  have  gone  to  look  at  her.  I  said  often  to  Jane — that 
is  my  little  servant — I  did  not  believe  that  if  the  houses 
opposite  to  her  were  on  fire,  she  would  raise  her  head  to 
look  at  them.  It  was  nothing  but  tears,  tears,  tears,  until 
I  cried  myself  when  I  looked  at  her.  When  I  told  her 
that  such  constant  grief  was  most  injurious  to  her,  she 
would  shake  her  beautiful  young  head,  as  though  to  say 
Aere  was  no  grief  like  hers.  I  remember  one  day  that  I 
said  to  her  she  must  cheer  up,  we  had  many  of  us  lost 
husbands. 

" '  She  had  beautiful  blue  eyes,  so  fine  and  dark,  large 
and  bright,  but  always  so  sad ;  she  raised  them  to  my  face 
with  a  look  I  have  never  forgotten. 

"  '  No  one  ever  lost  a  husband  in  the  same  cruel  way 
as  I  lost  mine." 

"  '  I  dared  not  ask  her  how  or  why;  there  was  a  certain 
dignity  about  her  which  she  never  lost. 
^   "  *  She  was  gentle  and  amiable,  but  she  never  spoke  of 


W  THE  DUKE^S  SECRET. 

herself  in  any  \fay,  neither  of  her  past,  present,  nor  fa- 
ture.' 

"'But,'  I  said,  anxiously,  'her  money;  how  did  she 
manage  over  money,  had  she  plenty  ?  Did  she  get  all  she 
wanted  ?    Had  she  all  that  she  needed  ?' 

"  '  I  hope  so.  I  do  not  know  what  money  she  had  or 
anything  at  all  about  it.  She  paid  her  way  and  bought 
what  she  wanted.     I  can  not  tell  you  any  more  than  that' 

"  '  Do  you  think  she  had  every  comfort  ? '  I  asked  again. 

" '  Sho  had  comforts,  but  no  luxuries,'  she  answered. 
*  When  she  was  ill  I  wanted  her  to  have  wine,  grapes,  or 
jelly,  but  she  would  not.  I  do  not  think  she  had  much 
money,  poor  young  thing.' 

" '  Can  you  tell  u«3  anything  about  her  daily  life  ? '  I 
asked,  and  the  answer  was  *  No.'  That,  although  she  had 
^ved  in  the  eame  house  with  her,  sha  had  really  seen  but 
little  of  hei ; .fud  all  that  she  could  tell  me  was  that  the 
greater  part  of  her  time  was  spent,  either  in  the  old  church 
of  St.  Mary's  on  Quay,  or  in  her  own  room  where  she 
wept  always.' 

"  How  my  heart  ached.  I  suffered  in  hearing  of  her  suf- 
fering far  more  than  any  pain  of  my  own  could  hurt  me. 
Then  I  took  courage  and  asked  about  the  little  one.  The 
good  woman  went  into  raptures  ;  there  never  had  been, 
never  could  be;  such  another  baby — it  was  absolute  per- 
fection. The  only  thing  she  had  never  been  able  to  bear 
was  the  sight  of  the  mother's  tears  dropping  on  its  face. 

" '  I  always  told  her,'  she  continued,  '  that  it  would  bring 
bad  luck  to  the  baby  when  I  saw  her  tears  lying  aU  wet  on 
its  face." 

"  *  No  such  ill  luck  can  ever  come  to  the  child  as  came 
to  me,'  she  would  say. 

'"But  how  she  loved  that  baby — it  was  pitiful  to  see 
her,  quite  pitiful.  Then  she  took  the  little  one  to  the 
church  of  St.  Mary's  on  Quay,  and  it  was  baptized  there — 
a  curious  name,  sir — Aired.  I  never  heard  the  name  be* 
fore  ;  but  she  said  it  belonged  to  her  husband's  family — 
her  husband  who  had  died  in  this  strange,  cruel  fasluoD 
Boon  after  their  marriage." 

*' '  How  long  did  she  stay  with  you  after  the  birth  of 
the  child  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Not  more  than  six  weeks,'  she  answered., 

•*  *  What  happened  then  ?  I  4ak«d. 


THE  DUKE'S  SECREl.  8^ 

"  *  She  sent  for  me  one  morning;  she  had  just  paid  and 
dismissed  the  nurse,  and  a  cab  was  at  the  door.  "  I  am 
going,  Mrs.  Stanley,"  she  said;  "thank  you  for  your  care 
and  kindness  to  me,  and  good-bye."  I  cried  and  wept  bit- 
terly over  her  and  the  little  one.  She  said  no  word  of 
where  she  was  going,  nor  do  I  remember  the  exact  date.' 

"  '  Should  you  know  the  cabman  again,  do  you  think? ' 
I  asked. 

"  '  No,'  she  replied,  '  I  did  not  see  him;  he  was  not  sent 
for  from  the  stand  near  our  house.  I  know  that — 1  was 
curious  enough  to  ask,  for  I  should  have  liked  to  have 
known  where  she  went^but  it  was  no  use  my  trying  to 
find  out,  not  the  least  in  the  world.  The  only  place  I 
heard  her  mention  was  America — whether  she  went  there 
or  not  I  can  not  tell;  I  should  say  th.  ^.  she  did. 

"  And  that  was  all  I  could  learn,  Ruskyn.  I  rewarded 
the  woman  handsomely,  and  left  the  hour?  where  my 
beautiful  young  wife  had  suffered  such  bitter  desolation. 
I  wish  to  verify  beyond  all  fear  of  mistake  the  birth  of  my 
son  and  heir,  and  I  have  more  evidence  than  even  the 
most  incredulous  would  have  required.  I  went  to  see  Dr. 
Fildene,  and  he  told  me  the  boy  was  strong  and  healthy 
and  likely  to  live.  I  introduced  myself  to  him  as  a  near 
relative  of  the  lady's,  and  one  most  anxious  to  discover  her 
whereabouts;  of  course,  he  knew  nothing.  He  sent  for 
the  nurse,  Mrs.  Higgs,  and  from  her  I  heard  many  a 
detail  of  my  lost  dailing,  which  brought  the  tears  into  my 
eyes. 

"  I  heard  no  more  of  her.  If  my  son  be  living  he  is 
Lord  St.  Albans  now,  and  his  mother  is  Duchess  of  Cas- 
tlemayne." 

"  Have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that  he  is  living  ?  " 
asked  the  lawyer. 

'*  No.  I  have  told  you  the  truth.  I  know  no  more — I  wish 
I  did.  Since  then,  nearly  twelve  years  since,  I  have 
heard  nothing  of  either  of  them — nothing  in  the  world.'* 

"  Twelve  years  is  a  long  time,"  said  the  lawyer;  "much 
may  happen  in  that  time — twelve  long  years.  Yes,  it  is 
all  that — how  much  may  happen  ?  " 

"  When  I  think  of  it,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  leel  as  though 
I  should  go  mad.  When  my  mother  talks  to  me  it  makes 
matters  worse.     I— in  fact,  I  don't  know  what  to  f^o." 

A»d  the  duke  leaned  back  with  a  hopeless,  uugerablf 


86  THi  duke's  secekt. 

expression  of  face  that  made  the  la^er  look  ewx  mort 
grave. 

CHAPTER  IX. 

"WHKRll  IS  EB  NOW — THIS  SOW  OP  MIHE?  ** 

Fob  some  minutes  there  was  silence  in  the  room,  then 
the  duke  raised  his  handsome,  haggard  face  to  his  lawyer. 

"  What  do  you  think  I  ought  to  do?  "he  asked;  but 
John  Buskyn  had  not  his  usual  answer  ready.  He  looked 
perplexed  and  thoughtful 

"I  am  quite  at  a  loss,"  he  said;  "  I  have  never  been  so 
utterly  at  a  loss  before.  I  must  have  time  to  decide.  I 
do  not  know  what  to  say.  It  is  the  strangest  case  I  ever 
heard." 

"  Not  only  strange,  but  true,"  said  the  duke.  "  Here  I 
am,  one  of  the  wealthiest  peers  in  England.  I  am  young; 
I  should  like  a  wife  to  love  me,  to  make  me  happy.  I 
should  like  children  to  grow  up  aroimd  me,  and  I  have 
neither.  I  am  the  last  of  a  good  old  race,  and  the  man 
who  must  succeed  me  is  one  whom  my  mother  hates.  I 
am  married,  yet  I  have  no  wife.  I  have  a  son,  but  no  heir; 
there  has  never  been  such  a  position.  On  one  side,  my 
mother  urges  me  every  day  to  get  married,  and  I  can  not 
tell  her  the  reason  why  I  dare  not  even  think  o^  it;  on  the 
other  side,  I  know  myself  that  I  am  married,  bvt  that  the 
chances  are  a  thousand  to  one  I  shall  never  see  my  wife 
again,  that  I  may  never  even  hear  of  her.  I  shall  never 
dare  to  marry,  thinking  always  that  she  may  be  living, 
and  may  return.  Yet  I  can  not  bear  to  do  as  i  am  doing 
now,  distress  my  mother,  leaving  my  name  and  estate  to  a 
man  whom  I  cordially  dislike." 

"  What  if  we  try  advertisements  ?  "  said  the  lawyer.  "  If 
anything  can  answer,  they  will,  they  generally  do." 

"  I  have  tried  them,"  said  the  duke;  "  diiring  all  these 
years  I  have  been  continually  advertising.'* 

"You  worded  the  advertisements  so  that  she  would 
understand  them  ?  "  said  the  lawyer. 

"  I  am  afraid  not;  when  I  first  lost  her  I  sent  there 
myself,  and  I  had  some  of  the  finest  detective  skill  in 
Englund  at  my  disposal,  but  beyond  tracing  her  to  Liver- 
pool, there  was  nothing  done." 

"Do  you  imagine,"  asked  John  RuskjTi,  '*that  she  if 
living  or  4©ad?" 


THE  duke's  SECREl'.  87 

"  I  can  not  tell.  It  seems  to  me,  even  tiiough  I  "behaved 
BO  badly  to  her,  though  I  failed  her  just  at  the  moment 
when  I  should  have  stood  her  friend,  yet,  if  she  were 
living,  she  would  surely  have  sent  me  some  sign  of  her 
existence;  she  must  understand,  for  instance,  what  a 
dilemma  I  am  placed  in  over  the  estate." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  John  Ruskyn,  she  has  never  given  it 
one  thought.  I  should  like  to  ask  your  grace  one  more 
question." 

"  Ask  anything  you  like,"  he  replied,  with  a  wearied 
air;  "  anything  on  earth  you  will.  I  am  only  too  anxious 
to  get  really  good  advice." 

"  It  will  seem  like  an  impertinance,"  said  the  lawyer;" 
but  even  a  physician  can  not  treat  a  disease  unless  he 
knows  the  full  details  and  symptoms,  so  I  can  not  see  my 
way  unless  I  know  exactly  all  that  is  passing  in  your 
mind.  Tell  me  just  the  truth — do  you  wish  to  find  her 
living  and  well  ? — do  you  love  her  still,  or  is  there  any 
one  else  you  would  like  to  marry. 

The  Duke  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  You  have  asked  me  a  question,"  he  said,  "  which  I 
hardly  know  how  to  answer  to  my  own  mind;  it  is  now  so 
long  since  I  have  seen  her  I  hardly  know  what  to  say.  I  did 
love  her — I  loved  her  with  the  whole  passion  of  my  heart. 
I  can  not  see,  looking  back  through  my  life,  that  I  have  ever 
•cared  or  even  felt  interested  in  any  one  else;  yet  I  hesi- 
■tate  when  you  ask  me  what  I  feel  for  her  now.  I  did  love 
her  passionately,  but — I  injured  her — and,  when  you  in- 
jure any  one  as  I  did  her,  I  think  you  seldom  feel  the  same 
ior  them.  I  can  not  tell  you,  Ruskyn,  what  I  should  do, 
for  instance,  if  I  saw  her  now  this  moment — whether  I 
should  rush  to  embrace  her  and  cry  out  to  her  for  pardon, 
or  whether  I  should  turn  from  her  with  shame,  not  daring 
to  address  her.  I  can  not  tell  whether  my  heart  would 
turn  to  her  with  its  old  passionate  love,  or  whether  I 
should  shrink  from  her  as  one  whom  I  had  injured  be- 
yond recall.  I  can  hardly  tell  you  what  my  own  personal 
feelings  are." 

"  I  can  well  imagine  that  you  are  bewildered,"  said 
John  Ruskyn,  quietly,  "  but  it  must  be  looked  fairly  in  the 
face." 

"  It  may  be,"  said  the  duke,  "that  if  I  saw  her  again,  all 
toy  old  love  for  her  would  revive.    She  was  so  beautiful 


88  rHE  dttke's  secret. 

and  gracious — so  noble.  You  can  imagine  how  she  passed 
through  that  scene  without  betraying  me  by  one  word ; 
noble  by  nature  and  by  instinct,  she  would  have  laid  hei 
head  on  the  block  with  the  same  calm,  quiet  courage  foi 
me. 

"  She  must  certainly  have  been  a  noble  woman,"  said 
the  lawyer. 

"  I  think,"  said  the  duke,  slowly,  "  that  it  has  become 
less  a  matter  of  what  I  may  call  personal  afifection  with  me 
than  anxiety  over  my  mother  and  the  estate.  You  see  it  is 
cruel  to  her,  and  in  her  sight,  makes  me  not  only  obstinate 
but  foolish.  I  have  no  valid  excuse  to  give  her  as  to  why 
I  can  not  marry,  and  she  expects  it  from  me  naturally." 

"  I  should  tell  her  the  truth,"  said  the  lawyer ;  "  it 
woidd  be  the  best ;  then  she  would  understand  the  matter." 

"  No,"  replied  the  duke,  "  it  would  kill  her,  I  believe. 
She  is  so  proud,  so  sensitive,  I  dare  not  tell  her.  After 
keeping  my  secret  all  these  years,  it  will  not  do  to  betray 
it  at  last." 

"  I  must  tell  you  quite  honestly,"  he  said,  "  that  although 
I  will  do  my  very  best,  I  have  not  much  hope  of  succeed- 
ing. I  am  half  afraid  that  Lady  Everleigh  will  have  cause 
to  rejoice  yet." 

"  Is  there  no  legal  way  out  of  it  ?"  asked  the  duke,  after 
a  pause. 

"  Yes  ;  but  one  you  will  hardly  care  to  adopt.  You 
could  probably  obtain  a  divorce  on  the  score  of  her  long 
silence  and  desertion  ;  then,  of  course,  the  whole  thing 
would  be  made  public,  and  everyone  would  talk  about 
it — a  proceeding  very  obnoxious,  I  am  sure,  to  her  Grace 
of  Castlemayne." 

The  duke  sighed  heavily. 

"  If  ever  a  man  did  suffer  from  one  moment  of  coward- 
ice it  is  I,"  he  said ;  "  and  yet  you  must  know  it  was  not 
so  much  cowardice  as  the  fear  of  hurting  my  mother. 
Now  I  look  back  upon  those  years,  I  find  that  I  worshipped 
my  mother  as  few  sons  have  ever  done.  I  cannot  think 
that  I  was  ever,  even  for  one  moment,  a  coward.  I  loathe 
the  word.  Now,  Ruskyn,  I  have  told  you  every  thought 
of  my  heart,  what  can  you  advise  ?" 

"  You  have  no  wish  to  be  freed  from  the  enain  hhak 
binds  you  and  her?"  asked  the  lawyer,  cautiously. 

**  No,  I  have  not,"  was  the  brief  reply. 


*"  THE  duke's  secret.  89 

**  Let  me  ask  this  one  question  more,"  he  said  ;  "  have 
you  seen  any  one  since  she  left  you,  -whom  you  like  as 
much  or  better  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  duke,  "  indeed  I  have  not ;  and,  as  a 
matter  of  principle  and  conscience,  I  do  not  approve  of 
divorce.  I  do  not  believe  in  it.  I  cannot  see  how  the 
decree  of  man  can  effect  the  decree  of  God.  I  cannot 
tell  to  what  I  may  be  driven,  if  my  mother  continues  to 
importune  me,  and  Lady  Everleigh  to  show  such  un- 
warrantable triumph  over  me.  I  may  some  day  have 
recourse  to  that  which  I  hold  in  most  righteous  wrath 
and  abhorrence." 

"  I  should  not  advise  you,"  said  Mr.  Ruskyn,  "  to  spend 
another  fortvme  in  advertisements  ;  it  strikes  me  that  the 
best  plan  will  be  to  place  it  in  the  hand  of  one  of  those 
intelligent  men  who  are  like  bloodhounds.  I  know  such 
a  one  now  ;  he  is  in  no  office,  but  is  in  business  for  him- 
seK ;  and  they  say  he  has  made  a  fortune  ;  that  he  never 
(ails  when  he  once  undertakes  an  affair,  but  holds  on 
iike  grim  death.     That  would  be  the  man  to  employ." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  dvike.     '•  Where  does  he  live  ?  " 

"  I  have  his  address  here.  He  is  of  Russian  parentage, 
but  was  bom  in  England.  He  is  keen  as  a  ferret,  with 
the  eyes  of  a  hawk.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  some  of  my  most 
Successful  cases  have  been  won  through  his  keen  research. 
Bis  name  is  ]Michael  Droski  ;  his  address,  Belton  Cottage, 
Finchley.  He  has  no  office,  there  is  no  parade,  no  fuss, 
no  ceremony ;  but  if  there  is  a  desperate  case  to  be 
handled,  a  desperate  mystery  to  be  unraveled,  Michael 
Droski  is  the  man  for  it." 

"  I  should  like  to  see  him,"  said  his  Grace  of  Castle- 
may  ne. 

"  You  can  do  so.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  his  terms  are 
Very  high  ;  he  brings  talent,  skill,  wit,  the  experience  of 
many  years  to  the  task,  and  he  insists  upon  ample  means 
for  carrying  it  through." 

"  He  can  have  what  he  wants,"  replied  his  grace.  "  To 
speak  candidly,  Ruskyn,  I  would  cheerfully  give  ten 
thousand  pounds  to  the  man  who  would  bring  me  certain 
hews  of  Naomi — whether  she  be  living  or  dead,  no  mat- 
ter what  her  state  or  what  her  fate.  Only  think  of  the 
relief  to  me  ;  think  if  I  could  say  to  myself, '  My  wife  is 
living  in  such  a  place  ;'  if  it  were  twenty  thousand  milei 


90  THE  DUKE'S  SECRET. 

awaj,  I  would  see  that  her  grave  was  an  honored  on»— 
she  could  sleep  in  no  unknown  land,  in  no  obscure  grave. 
And  then  there  is  one  more  thing  that  strikes  me  with 
horror  ;  it  is  this,  that  somewhere  in  this  wide  world  I 
have  a  son,  Aired  St.  Albans,  who  ought  now  to  be  grow- 
ing up  under  my  own  eye,  heir  to  my  estate,  the  very 
pride  and  joy  of  my  life.  Where  is  he  now,  this  hand- 
some young  son  of  mine  ?  and,  Ruskyn,  suppose  that  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst,  and  I  marry  again,  I  can  not 
have  two  eldest  sons  or  two  heirs.  If  I  were  to  marry 
some  innocent,  high-born  girl,  and  then  my  true  heir 
appeared,  it  would  be  a  most  terrible  thing,  and  cause  far 
greater  scandal  than  anything  else." 

"  It  would  be  most  terribly  awkward,"  said  Mr.  Rus- 
kyn, reflectively. 

"  It  seems  to  me  almost  a  more  awkward  matter  than 
the  wife,"  continued  his  grace.  "  No  one  can  read  the 
papers  without  seeing  that  every  day  new  compUcations 
arise  in  matrimonial  affairs,  and  in  some  way  or  other 
there  is  generally  a  loop-hole ;  but  in  the  matter  of  a  soij 
there  is  no  such  loop-hole,  nor  do  I  see  any  wa/  out  di 
the  difficulty." 

"  Only  by  telling  your  second  wife,  if  you  ever  have  one, 
the  plain  truth,  "  said  John  Ruskyn.  "  If  your  grace  can 
wait  for  half  an  hour  I  will  send  you  in  a  cab  to  Finchley 
Road  for  Michael  Droski.  I  know  he  is  at  home  to-daj, 
hunting  up  evidence  and  arranging  it  for  me." 

His  Grace  of  Castlemayne  decided  to  wait,  and  filled  up 
his  time  by  trying  some  of  the  lawyer's  famous  golden 
sherry.  If  he  could  but  have  got  rid  of  his  heari-acbe, 
as  well  as  of  his  time  1 

CHAPTER  X. 

MIOHAKL   DBOSKI,    Tfll   DSTKCTIVS. 

Ah  hour  later  the  duke  was  engrossed  with  Michael 
Droski.  The  detective  was  a  tall,  fine-looking  man,  with 
a  dark,  half-Tartar  cast  of  face,  small,  shrewd  eyes,  thin  com- 
pressed lips ;  a  man  who  could  not  only  find  out  a  secret, 
but  keep  one;  a  caution  highly  developed;  a  man,  the 
duke  avowed  to  himself,  who  was  most  decidedly  to  be 
trusted. 
^  ''It  is  a  difficult  case,"  said  his  grace,  looking  up  with 


THE  duke's  secret.  9l 

his  handsome  high-bred  face,  "  I  can  say  that  much  for 
myself ;  yet  they  tell  me  that  your  skill  is  unriyaled. 
You  see  I  have  no  clear  trace.  I  can  help  you  in  no  pos- 
sible way.  It  is  as  though  I  said  to  you,  *  Here  is  the 
great,  wide  world,  and  there  is  one  woman  lost  in  it — go 
and  find  her.' " 

"Yes,"  said  the  detective,  "in  plain  English,  your 
grace,  that  is  it.  But  even  then  I  do  not  despair.  I  be- 
lieve I  could  find  a  child  who  had  been  left  in  the  desert 
of  Sahara.  I  take  no  credit  to  myself,  but  the  fact  is  I 
am  a  man  with  the  keen  scent  of  a  bloodhound." 

His  Grace  of  Castlemayne  shuddered  a  little  ;  to  him 
the  mention  of  a  bloodhound  was  not  pleasant. 

"  I  never  boast,"  said  Michael  Droski.  "  I  do  not  like 
boasting;  every  man  has  his  gifts;  but  I  must  say  tbig — 
I  have  iDrought  to  light  more  mysteries  than  any  one 
would  believe  in.  One  I  shall  never  forget.  I  was  sent 
for  in  great  haste  to  a  very  old-fashioned  house  in  York- 
shire. It  had  been  empty  some  ten  or  twelve  years,  and 
as  a  matter  of  course  every  one  pronounced  it  to  be  haunted. 
The  family  who  took  it  found  the  dead  body  of  a  child, 
seemingly  young — about  eleven  was  the  neare'at  guess 
ever  made.  The  body  of  a  child  buried  in  the  c^;llar.  Of 
course  suspicion  fell  upon  the  last  inhabitants.  The  land-" 
lord  was  a  wealthy  nobleman  who,  being  deeply  agrieved 
at  the  scandal  that  had  fallen  on  the  hous<i,  under- 
took the  expense  of  finding  and  prosecuting  them.  He 
sent  for  me.  There  was  no  clue  as  to  where  the  last  in- 
habitants had  gone;  the  house  was  let  furnished;  they 
had  left  by  the  old  stage-coach  which  is  now  replaced  by 
the  railroad,  and  the  old  coachman  had  been  at  rest  for 
many  years.  They  had  had  no  friends,  no  neighbors; 
their  names  even  were  forgotten.  Yet,  do  not  think  me 
vain,  your  grace,  I  found  them — found  out  the  mystery. 
The  murderess  was  the  wife,  a  beautiful,  elegant  woman; 
and  the  child  she  had  killed  was  not  hers  but  her  hus- 
band's, you  understand — she  had  been  mad  with  jealousy. 
She  told  me  that  she  had  always  felt  sure  that  she  should  be 
found  out.  The  case  never  came  to  trial,  for  she  poisoned 
herself  during  the  few  moments  given  to  dress  in.  Talk 
of  romance,  your  grace,  that  woman  had  worn  a  ring  with 
poison  in  it  for  years,  always  dreading  the  fate  that  c&iaf 
»t  last" 


98  THE  duke's  bbosbt. 

"  A.  miserable  case,"  cried  the  duke. 

"Not  a  very  uncommon  one,"  said  the  detective. 
"  People  little  dream  of  what  passes  in  the  world;  just  as 
a  fair-looking  green  meadow  may  be  undermined  by  a 
black,  dangerous  coal  mine,  so  the  life  that  seems  fairest 
in  the  eyes  of  men  may  really  be  hideous  with  crime.  I 
have  seen  a  great  deal  in  my  Hfe.  You  shake  hands  with 
a  charming  woman,  whose  smile  is  like  sunsbme,  little 
dreaming  that  those  hands  so  white  and  beautiful,  have 
dropped  poison  in  the  cup  of  some  one  who  loved  her.  You 
admire  a  man  for  his  frank  honest  bravery,  little  dreaming 
that  he  has  sent  his  wife  to  heaven  to  secure  her  life  in- 
surance money.  If  the  mask  were  suddenly  withdrawn 
from  all  lives,  I  do  not  think  that  any  one  living  could 
bear  the  horror  of  it." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  have  very  cheerful  views  of  life," 
said  his  Grace  of  Castlemayne. 

"  Mine  is  not  the  profession  in  which  men  are  inclined 
to  cheerful  views,  your  grace.  When  I  am  not  unraveling 
mystery  I  am  trying  to  find  out  sin  and  crime ;  and  I  re- 
peat that  few  people  know  how  much  goes  on  of  either. 
I  remember  another  case  where  the  gentleman,  a  wealthy 
country  squire,  was  almost  driven  mad  by  continual  rob- 
beries— gold,  silver,  bank-notes,  forged  checks.  There  was 
hardly  a  week  in  which  he  did  not  lose,  by  some  means  or 
other,  a  large  sum  of  money.  He  had  tried  all  the  detec- 
tives* skill,  but  it  was  in  vain;  they  could  make  nothing  of 
it,  and  at  last  they  sent  for  me.  I  found  that  he  was  a 
widower  with  three  daughters;  the  eldest  of  whom,  a  beau- 
tiful girl  of  eighteen,  whom  he  worshipped,  kept  house  for 
him,  I  need  not  trouble  you  with  the  details;  for  some 
few  days  I  began  to  think  that  I  was  baffled  at  last,  but  I 
found  it  out.  The  daughter  he  loved  and  trusted  was  the 
thief.  She  had  a  lover  who  made  her  believe  right  was 
wrong  and  wrong  was  right;  but  he  made  her  believe  that 
stealing  from  her  father  to  pay  his  gambling  debts  was  a 
piece  of  heroism.  This  discovery  broke  the  old  squire's 
heart.  I  never  like  to  think  of  it.  The  poor  girl  found 
out  afterward  that  her  lover  was  a  married  man;  and  she 
is  in  a  lunatic  asylum.  There  is  no  phase  of  human  life 
unknown  to  a  detective  officer." 

The  duke  glanced  at  him  with  some  curiosity. 


THE  duee'b  secbzt.  93 

"  Will  you  tell  me,"  he  said,  "  if  you  hare  e^er  known 
a  case  quite  like  mine  ?" 

"  I  have  looked  for  many  lost  wives,"  he  replied,  "  but 
it  has  always  been  in  a  much  lower  class.  It  is  not  so 
easy  for  a  duchess  to  be  lost." 

"  My  wife  never  was  a  duchess,"  said  his  grace;  "she 
never  even  used  her  title  of  Lady  St.  Albans." 

"  She  may  never  have  used  it,"  replied  Michael  Droski, 
"but  rely  upon  it  she  has  not  forgotten  it  I  think 
myself  there  is  nothing  pleases  any  woman  so  much  as 
a  title." 

"  It  did  not  please  her  very  much,  poor  child,"  sighed 
the  duke.  "  What  do  you  think  now  of  one's  chance  of 
finding  her,  Mr.  Droski?" 

He  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  then  he  said  gently: 

"  I  tbiuk  I  shall  find  her;  there  are  great  difficulties, 
but  I  have  beaten  down  even  greater.  There  are  cases 
on  which  I  say  at  once,  '  I  shall  do  this.'  I  hesitate  to 
affirm  it,  yet  I  believe  I  shall  do  it." 

"  I  hope  to  Heaven  you  will,"  said  the  duke.  "  All  I 
can  say  is  this,  that  if  you  succeed  I  will  make  you  a  rich 
man  for  life ;  spare  nothing — neither  money,  time,  trouble, 
nor  anythiug  else." 

" I  wiU  not,"  replied  Michael  Droski,  "I  hope  your 
grace  will  not  be  offended  if  I  ask  one  more  question.  It 
is  this.  This  lady  of  whom  I  am  in  search,  is  she  likely  to 
have  married  again  or  anything  of  that  kind  ?  " 

"No,"  baid  the  duke  ;  "just  as  she  left  me,  so,  if  she  be 
living,  you  will  find  her." 

"  And  find  her  I  will,"  added  the  man,  full  of  enthu- 
siasm for  what  in  his  own  mind  he  called  his  "  art" 
"  Your  grace  must  not  expect  any  immediate  news,"  he 
continued,  "seeing  that  I  have  all  the  world  to  look 
through.  I  can  not  hurry  or  expedite  matters.  It  may 
be  years,"  he  continued,  slowly  ;  "  but  I  think  I  can  safely 
swear,  sooner  or  later,  I  will  see  your  grace  either  with 
the  certificate  of  her  death  in  my  hands  or  with  the  ad- 
dress of  the  place  in  which  you  will  find  her  living.  I 
pledge  myself  and  I  shall  not  faU  you." 

"Well,"  said  the  duke,  meditatively,  "if  you  do  this 
much  for  me  you  may  consider  your  fortune  made.  I  am 
not  an  ungrateful  man  ;  and  at  this  moment  I  am,  X 
should  say,  ike   most    thoroughly   miserable  man    is 


94  THE  duke's  segbet. 

England.  I  am  in  a  dilemma  so  terrible  that  I  can  find 
no  way  out  of  it.  If  you  can  find  a  way  for  me  you  will 
merit  my  eternal  gratitude  and  thanks ;  as  for  money, 
you  have  carte  blanche  ;  spend  what  you  will,  but  keep 
your  promise." 

So  they  parted  on  the  very  best  of  terms.  The  detec- 
tive full  of  zeal,  the  duke  with  more  hope  in  his  heart  than 
had  lived  there  for  many  a  long  day.  It  was,  as  he  had 
said,  one  of  the  most  difficult  positions  in  which  a  man 
could  be  placed.  His  immense  estate  and  time-honored 
title,  his  vast  wealth,  the  honors  that  had  accumulated  for 
so  many  generations,  all  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  a  family 
which  he  disliked,  was  in  itself  a  severe  disappointment ; 
but  to  know  that  somewhere  in  the  world  he  had  a  beau- 
tiful wife  and  a  son  was  a  greater  anxiety  still. 

There  was  hiindreds  of  ladies  who  would  gladly  have 
married  him  ;  hardly  a  mother  in  England  who  would  not 
have  given  her  youngest  and  fairest  daughter  to  him.  To 
be  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  was  the  end  and  aim  of  many 
A  bright  young  life.  There  was  no  man  in  England  so 
feted  and  flattered.  Mothers  argued  with  themselves  in 
this  fashion — that  although  he  might  for  many  years  to 
come  shun  matrimony,  he  would  be  compelled  in  the  end 
to  embrace  it.  It  was  well  known  that  his  mother,  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  wished  with  her  whole  heart  for 
bis  marriage,  and  that  she  did  all  in  her  power  to  hasten 
it.  She  never  tired  of  introducing  him  to  the  most  beau- 
tiful women  and  the  most  charming  of  girls.  She  had 
planned  and  managed,  time  after  time,  that  she  should 
have  the  first  introduction  to  the  most  lovely  of  debxUarUes. 
Her  anxiety  that  he  should  marry  was  well  known.  It  had 
been  whispered  that  she  would  not  be  very  particular  as 
to  whom  he  married,  provided  that  he  would  only  take 
to  himself  a  wife.  Time  had  been  when  she  had  not  thought 
a  royal  princess  good  enough  for  him  ;  but  those  times 
were  changed  now.  It  had  almost  become  part  of  the 
fashionable  education  of  a  young  lady  that  she  should  know 
the  Castlemayne  coronet  was  to  be  won. 

Surely  never  had  duke  before  such  a  chance.       Such 
fair  eyes,  smiling  faces  to  greet  him   wherever  he   went; 
such  bright  to  grow  brighter  for  his  coming;  but  he  wa« 
harder  than  stone  and  colder  than  marble. 
^  Tlie  ^irls  said  thftt  wh«n  he  talked  to  them,  ^yett  oa 


Va&  DTTKE^S  SECBET.  95 

the  most  interestmg  of  subjects,  even  wlien  he  listened  to 
4iieir  singing  of  the  finest  love-songs,  even  when  he 
dfuiced  with  them  to  the  sweetest  music,  he  looked  as 
though  with  heart  and  eyes  he  was  looking  for  some  one 
«lse — they  little  knew,  either,  how  true  it  was.  He  never 
«vent  into  a  room  filled  with  beautiful  women  without 
tvondering  if  Naomi,  by  some  strange  chance,  were  among 
tihem.  He  never  read  of  a  woman  found  drowned,  killed  . 
t)n  a  railroad,  slain  in  a  great  fire,  without  wondering  if' 
Naomi  were  the  victim.  He  never  passed  a  group  of 
boys  playing  in  the  street  without  one  thought  as  to 
Whether  among  them  was  his  son. 

So  that  it  was  no  wonder  he  walked  through  the  world 
like  one  who  was  in  search  of  something  he  could  never 
find. 

CHAPTER  XL 

"THB   only   woman   I   DETKST.** 

A  OAKDET-PiLBTY  at  Richmond,  given  by  the  Duchess  of 
Tehay  at  her  charming  villa,  and  the  elite  of  London  so- 
ciety are  expected.  The  Duchess  of  Tehay  knew  how  to 
tnake  her  parties  popular.  She  invited  the  prettiest  and 
hiost  brilliant  of  women;  she  did  not  underrate  the  true 
Value  of  professional  beauties,  either — they  were  always  a 
chief  feature  at  her  parties.  No  gentleman  ever  declined 
an  invitation,  knowing  that  at  the  ducal  villa  he  could  see 
the  most  beautiful  faces  in  London.  The  grounds  were 
very  extensive,  sloping  down  to  the  very  banks  of  the 
river;  a  large  boat-house  stood  there,  and  several  beauti- 
ful little  pleasure-boats  were  at  the  disposal  of  the  duch- 
ess's visitors. 

The  invitations  to  this,  the  last  garden-party  of  tho 
season,  had  been  sent  far  and  wide.  The  Duke  of  Castle- 
mayne  and  the  duchess,  decidedly  the  most  stately  and 
noble  of  the  matrons,  came  second.  Mother  and  son  dis- 
cussed the  invitations  over  their  most  comfortable  and 
luxurious  breakfast  table. 

"I  like  the  Richmond  garden-parties,"  said  her  grace; 
*'  but  if  I  thought  we  phould  meet  that  brainless  woman 
With  her  two  impertinent  daughters,  and  that  detestable 
A)n,  I  would  not  go. " 

"  What  a  sweeping  accusation,  mother.  Do  you  meas 
XiadyEverleighr 


y 

96  THE  ditee's  secret. 

"  She  is  certainly  the  only  woman  I  detest,"  replied  the 
duchess.     If  I  thought  she  were  going  I  would  not  go." 

"I  should  hardly  think  that  she  is  on  the  duchess's 
visiting  list,"  said  the  duke. 

"She  ought  not  to  be;  but  I  have  noticed  lately,  since 
BO  much  has  been  said  about  her  son  succeeding  you, 
that  they  mix  in  quite  a  different  set,"  and  the  duchess 
sighed  deeply  as  she  spoke. 

"That  may  be;  and  if  you  look  at  it  in  the  right  light 
it  is  a  compliment  to  us." 

"  My  dear  Bertrand,"  said  her  grace  with  calm  pride, 
"  where  we  stand,  comphments  do  not  affect  us.  I  have 
noticed  another  thing,  and  it  is  this — that  lately  Lady 
Everleigh  has  been  bringing  forward  those  two  daughters 
of  hers  as  beauties.     Can  you  imagine  that  ?" 

"  They  are  nice  looking  girls,"  said  the  duke,  who  was 
very  tolerant. 

"  I  have  never  seen  a  nice  looking  Everleigh  yet,"  said 
the  duchess,  hastily.  "  I  shall  certainly  not  go  to  Bich- 
mond  if  she  is  going." 

"  I  have  not  heard,"  said  the  duke,  "  of  any  one  who 
has  either  accepted  or  dechned  at  present.  The  Prin- 
cess of  L is  going,  and  you  like  to  meet  her." 

"  There  is  not  a  more  amiable  or  accompUshed  princess 
in  the  world,"  cried  her  grace.  "  She  is  really  attached 
to  me  ;  and  I  would  go  anywhere  to  meet  her." 

"  I  know  she  is  going ;  one  of  the  equerries  told  me 
last  evening,"  said  Sie  duke.  "  My  dear  mother,  forget 
all  about  Lady  Everleigh,  and  think  about  the  princess." 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  wrung  her  hands. 

"  If  I  could,"  she  cried.  "  If  I  might  but  forget  Lady 
Everleigh.  Unfortunately  for  mysefi,  I  never  can — never. 
Oh,  Bertrand,  how  well  I  remember  the  day  on  which  you 
were  bom.  I  thought  all  my  troubles  and  annoyances 
had  ended  forever.  I  held  you  in  my  arms  and  felt  as 
though  I  had  a  sheet  anchor.  I  was  sorry  for  every  one 
who  had  not  a  son  as  beautiful  and  as  noble  as  mine. 
And  now  I  must  hve  to  see  the  son  of  the  woman  who 
hates  me  and  triumphs  over  me  take  the  place  I  thought 
my  son  would  occupy.  I  can  see  for  myself  that  people 
look  upon  Arthur  Everleigh  as  your  heir." 

He  rose  hastily  from  his  seat. 

«  My  dearest  mother,  you  are  morVid  on  that  soore,"  Im 


THE  DUEE^S  SECSKP.  97 

■aid  ;  "  it  is  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  speak  as  though 
I  were  an  old  man,  or  past  the  prime  of  life.  You  forget 
my  age — I  am  not  much  more  than  thirty.  Thirty,  why, 
a  man  is  young  at  thirty." 

The  beautiful,  stately  face  looked  greatly  reUeved. 

"That  is  true,  Bertrand.  It  is  not  your  years  that 
alarm  me  so  much  as  yoiu:  decided  avoidance  of  mar- 
riage." 

"Give  me  time,  mother.  Some  day  or  other  I  will 
make  up  for  all  this  anxiety." 

"  If  I  could  but  think  so,"  said  the  duchesa  "  You  have 
promised  so  often,  and  every  day  that  passes  you  seem 
further  from  it." 

"  Be  patient,  mother,  just  one  year  longer,"  he  said  ; 
"  only  one  year,  and  then  you  shall  see  what  I  shall  do. 
I  promise  you  if  you  will  give  me  another  year's  perfect 
peace  and  quiet,  that  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  will  take 
some  decisive  step  that  will  please  you  very  much.  Will 
you  be  content  ?  " 

"  I  will  try,  my  son,"  she  said,  gently ;  "  I  think  we  will 
go  to  Richmond  ;  it  is  just  possible  that  you  might  meet 
some  one  whom  you  like  there." 

"  The  beautiful,  high-bred  face  looked  so  anxious  and 
grieved  that  the  duke  could  not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  say 
even  one  word  which  would  dampen  her  hopes. 

"  I  will  go  with  pleasure,"  he  said ;  "  and  I  will  look 
out  for  the  prettiest  girl  there." 

"  If  Lady  Everleigh  shoidd  be  there,  Bertrand,"  she 
said,  "you  could  not  do  better  than  to  let  her  see  that  you 
ve  not  really  afraid  of  talking  to  a  nice  girl;  she  says  you 
are." 

"  Then  she  says  what  is  not  true,  mother.  I  will  never 
what  the  world  calls  flirt  with  anyjgirl.  I|do  not  care  to  say 
a  word  more  than  I  mGSn,  or  to  make  any  girl  think  I  Uke 
her  more  than  I  really  do.  You,  I  am  quite  sure,  will  never 
blame  me  for  that." 

"  No;  that  is  simply  the  behavior  of  a  man  of  honor," 
said  the  duchess. 

She  felt  somewhat  happier.  After  all  what  her  son  said 
was  most  perfectly  true.  He  was  still  young — not  yet  in 
the  prime  of  life.  Why  despair  and  despond  ?  There  waar 
plenty  of  time  for  him  to  marry  yet.  She  looked  at  him 
AS  he  opened  the  papers;  in  all  the  land  there  could  he  ao 


OS  f&E  D¥K£'S  SEGB£». 

finer,  handsomer,  more  noble  looking  man.  There  was 
not  the  faintest  symptoms  of  age ;  his  face  was  clear-cut, 
without  line  or  wrinkle;  his  hair  was  thick  and  clustering, 
his  eyes  undimned;  it  seemed  folly  to  look  on  him  as  a 
bachelor.  It  was  in  great  measure  his  own  fault;  she 
remembered  it  was  he  who  had  shunned  and  avoided  the 
fair  sex;  and  Lady  Everleigh,  for  the  advancement  of  her 
own  family  had  been  only  too  eager  to  spread  all  kinds  of 
reports  of  his  confirmed  bachelor  habits.  When  she  cam© 
to  look  more  calmly  at  it  what  madness  it  seemed. 

They  would  go  to  Richmond  together,  and  if  her  foe 
was  present,  perhaps  this  time  the  victory  would  be  on 
her  side. 

They  went ;  and  it  seemed  as  though  Providence  had 
given  the  day  expressly  for  pleasure  ;  it  was  so  bright,  so 
beautiful,  the  sun  so  warm,  the  air  lull  of  perfume.  The 
river  was  perfection,  just  stirred  by  the  faintest  of  breaths 
— so  calm  at  times  that  in  the  great  quiet  one  could  see 
the  shadows  of  the  clouds  and  trees.  The  birds  sung 
their  sweetest  songs,  the  butterflies  showed  their  brightest 
colors. 

The  groimds  were  most  beautiful  in  themselves  ;  but 
on  this  day  it  was  easy  to  imagine  that  it  was  Arcadia. 
The  whole  scene — the  blue  sky,  the  clear  rolling  river,  the 
ripple  of  the  green  foUage,  the  graceful  figures  and  beau- 
tifid  faces  of  the  ladies — ^made  it  a  scene  of  enchant- 
ment. 

The  Princess  of  L was  there,  as  royal,  genial,  kind 

as  ever,  delighted  to  meet  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne,  and 
even  more  delighted  to  meet  the  duke,  who  was  a  great 
favorite  with  all  the  royal  family. 

"  I  hear  very  sad  accounts  of  you,"  said  the  princess, 
■with  her  most  charming  smile.  "I  wonder  if  they  are 
true." 

"  I  will  tell  your  highness  honestly,"  he  replied. 

"  I  hear,"  she  continued,  "  that  in  a  land  of  beautiful 
maidens,  you  are  charmed  by  none." 

"It  is  not  true,"  he  replied. 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  Nothing  will  please  me  better 
than  to  know  that  you  have  a  wife,  good  and  charming, 
aa  you  have  a  mother." 

**  Do  not  think,  your  highness,  that  it  will  be  possible/ 


THE  DUKE'S  SEOBBT.  99 

he  said,  kissing  his  mother's  hand.     "Mj  mother  has 
always  seemed  to  be  the  perfection  of  womanhood." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  replied  the  princess, 
with  one  of  her  kindest  smiles.  "  It  is  too  much  the  fashion 
now  to  aflfect  a  want  of  love  for  parents.  I  like  the  old- 
fashioned  respect;"  and  then  the  kindly  princess  walked 
on  with  the  handsome  duke  by  her  side. 

That  was  the  first  group  which  attracted  Lady  Ever- 
leigh's  attention.  She  had  brought  both  her  daughters, 
and  was  anxious  that  they  should  be  acknowledged  as 
belles  and  beauties. 

"One  word  of  caution,  my  dears,"  she  said.  "Do  you 
see  how  very  intimate  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  is  with 
the  princess?  Pay  attention  to  her;  and  do  not  forget  that 
the  best  match  in  England,  at  this  present  time,  is  the 
Duke  of  Castlemayne." 

The  young  ladies  smiled  acquiescence.  To  know  a  duch- 
ess who,  in  her  turn,  was  liked  and  trusted  by  »  princesi^ 
was  a  position  not  to  be  despised.  Certainly  tho  two  girls 
looked  their  best.  They  were  fine,  tall,  handsome  girls, 
with  dark  eyes,  dark  hair,  and  plenty  of  color,  dressed 
with  great  care  and  elegance  in  costume  of  rich,  creamy 
silk,  picturesquely  touched  with  pink. 

Lady  Everleigh  watched  them,  and  saw  the  duke  look- 
ing a  little  more  interested  in  them,  and  Hilda,  who  had 
certainly  a  weakness  for  her  handsome  kinsman,,  blushed 
most  beautifully  when  he  addressed  her.  This  g»v«  Lady 
Everleigh  quite  a  new  idea. 

What  if  the  duke  gave  up  his  ideas  of  celibacy,  and 
could  be  persuaded  into  marrying  Hilda.  Which  would 
be  the  best;  she  wondered,  to  see  her  son  Duke  of  Castle- 
mayne, or  her  daughter  duchess  ? 

Still  more  to  her  surprise,  she  saw  that  when  the  -duke 
left  the  side  of  the  royal  lady  who  was  pleased  to  honor 
him,  he  went  back  to  Hilda,  who  was  sitting  witL  her 
sister  under  the  chestnut  trees.  Could  it  be  possible  that 
he  who  had  been  sought  by  the  fairest  of  women,  should 
be  attracted  by  her  daughter?  She  did  not  know  tha*  he 
thought,  by  some  little  friendly  advances  to  the  family, 
he  could  save  his  mother  annoyance. 

Lady  Everleigh  was  radiant.  She  drew  the  attention 
of  every  0119  present  to  the  duke's  t$te-a-t^  with  he? 
daug^htei:. 


100  £HS  duke's  sbcbxt. 

"Marble  softened,  ice  warmed,"  and  yarious  otbef 
"Would-be  pretty  phrases  she  employed  to  attract  attention; 
and  it  was  somewhat  unusual  to  see  his  Grace  of  Castle- 
mayne  so  engaged. 

It  was  as  dramatic  and  comic  as  a  play  to  see  Lady 
Everleigh  and  the  duchess  together.  My  lady  joined  her 
as  she  was  walking  across  the  lawn,  and  in  her  most 
ingratiating  style  began  conversation  on  the  beauty  of 
the  day  and  the  fete.  The  duchess  received  every  gush- 
ing remark  with  calm,  cold  surprise,  untU  Lady  Ever- 
leigh, indicating  with  a  bland,  graceful  gesture  tiie  little 
group  on  the  lawn,  said: 

"  That  is  a  step  in  the  right  direction.  I  am  glad  to 
see  it." 

"  I  have  not  the  honor  of  understanding  you,"  replied 
the  duchess,  drawing  her  lace  shawl  round  her,  and  turn- 
ing away  with  more  hauteur  than  she  had  ever  yet 
shown. 

My  lady  laughed  to  herself.    This  pleased  her. 

'*  One  or  the  other,"  she  said;  "  I  do  not  care  which." 

CHAPTER  Xn. 

AX  UKOOIOION  CHARACTKR. 

"MoBB  odious  than  ever,"  was  the  decision  or  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  when  she  came  to  reconsider 
Lady  Everleigh's  conduct. 

*'  My  dear  Bertrand,  how  could  you  talk  to  that  girl  ?" 

"  She  is  a  simple,  inoffensive  girl,  mother,  and  really 
rather  a  nice  girl  than  otherwise." 

"  You  must  know  how  much  your  notice  distinguished 
her.  Lady  Everleigh  was  drawing  unusual  attention  to 
it." 

"  I  did  it  for  your  sake  entirely,  mother.  I  thought  if 
I  were  agreeable  and  kind  to  her  they  would  be  less  tire- 
some to  you." 

"  It  was  very  good  of  you,"  she  replied  coldly,  "  but  I 
prefer  bearing  the  annoyance  to  that  method  of  reheving 
it.  Lady  Everleigh's  eyes  said  as  plainly  as  eyes  could 
speak,  '  See,  if  my  son  be  not  a  duke,  my  daughter  will  be 
a  duchess.' " 

"All  fancy,  mother,"  he  replied. 

•♦  JJo,  it's  ref4  enough.    J  had  all  the  insolence  ojt  het 


THE  DUKES  SECBET.  101 

triumph.  I  am  anxious  enough,  Heaven  knows,  that  you 
should  marry  one  of  those  girls;  but  it  was  not  of  Lady 
Everleigh  or  her  daughters  I  came  to  speak  to  you;  I 
have  had  a  letter  this  morning  which  has  puzzled  me  very 
much." 

The  duchess  had  gone  to  her  son's  study,  a  beautiful, 
light,  lofty  room  that  overlooked  the  park,  a  room  much 
affected  by  the  duke  in  his  studious  moods.  It  was  not 
often  that  her  grace  sought  him  there,  but  this  morning 
with  a  look  of  anxiety  on  her  handsome  face  and  an  open 
letter  in  her  hand,  she  presented  herself  to  him. 

"  Is  it  anything  in  which  I  can  help  you,  mother  ?"  he 
asked. 

"  It  all  depends  on  you,  Bertrand.  My  decision  is 
made;  I  await  yours.  The  letter  is  from  the  Earl  of 
Arden." 

The  duke  repeated  the  name  after  her. 

"  The  Earl  of  Arden !  Why,  he  has  been  so  long  out 
of  England  one  has  forgotten  his  existence  almost." 

"  You  know,  of  course,  that  he  is  distantly  related  to 
me,"  said  the  duchess,  "  The  Ardens  and  the  Mount 
Severns  are  akin.  This  present  earl  when  I  was  quite  a 
girl  was  one  of  my  most  fervent  admirers," 

"  I  am  not  surprised  at  it,  mother,"  he  said,  and  in  his 
own  heart  he  thought  to  himself  that  in  her  youth  she 
must  have  been  the  most  magnificently  beautiful  of  women. 

The  duchess  smiled  at  her  son's  compliments ;  and  she 
was  always  well  pleased  with  them. 

"  He  was  many  years  older  than  I  was,  and  even  then  a 
confirmed  invalid.  Some  short  time  afterward  he  married 
Theresa  Everton,  a  plain  woman,  but  a  wealthy  heiress. 
They  went  abroad  at  once,  and  never  returned  to  England 
—his  health  will  not  allow  him  to  live  in  England." 

"It  is  very  unfortunate  for  him,"  said  the  duke;  "j 
should  not  like  to  live  out  of  England." 

"  Nor  should  I,"  said  the  duchess.  "You  will  remem- 
ber, perhaps,  that  the  Countess  of  Arden  died  some  fivf 
or  six  years  ago — I  told  you  at  the  time." 

"Yes,  I  remember  it  perfectly,"  replied  the  duke,  won- 
dering to  what  all  this  would  lead. 

"She  left  one  daughter,"  continued  the  duchess,  "  Lady 
Valentine  Arden,  and  the  earl  has  written  to  me  ab^ut 
hex." 


102  THE  DUKE^S  SEOBST. 

She  watched  her  son's  face  narrowly  to  see  if  any  sign 
of  interest  came  there,  but  none  appeared. 

"A  letter,"  she  continued,  "which  has  puzzled  me 
very  much,  and  the  answer  to  which  must  depend  en- 
tirely on  you.  The  earl  tells  me  she  is  a  most  beautiful 
girl,  innocent  and  simple  as  a  child  ;  she  knows  less  than 
nothing  of  life,  for  her  ideas  are  all  Utopian.  She  has 
never  been  away  from  her  father  for  one  day — he  tells 
me  they  have  been  inseparable,  and  that  she  is  as  simple 
as  a  child  of  ten." 

"  Rather  an  uncommon  character  in  these  degenerate 
days,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Yes,  indeed  ;  and  that  is  one  reason  why  I  am  so  diffi- 
dent about  the  matter.  A  worldly  minded  girl,  or  one  of 
experience — one  who  has  seen  something  of  life — I 
Bhovdd  not  mind,  but  a  girl  simple  as  a  child  of  ten, 
beautifvd  and  a  great  heiress  is  an  undertaking,  Ber- 
trand." 

"  Certainly.,  mother,  and  a  very  hazardous  undertaking, 
too." 

"  The  earl  wishes  me  to  take  charge  of  his  daughter 
for  two  or  three  years  ;  she  is  eighteen  years  of  age,  and, 
as  I  said  before,  has  seen  nothing  of  life.  He  wishes  her 
to  see  something  of  English  society,  and  is  kind  enough 
to  add  that  she  cannot  see  it  under  better  auspices  than 
mine." 

"  That  is  quite  true,"  answered  the  duke. 

**  The  earl  himself  must  remain  at  Nice — he  says  that 
he  could  not  live  in  any  other  place,  and  he  would  like 
Lady  Valentine  to  be  with  me  for  two  or  three  years  at 
least ;  she  will  have  what  I  call  a  magnificent  allowance  ; 
she  is  heiress  of  Fairlight  Park,  and,  altogether,  I  should 
say,  she  is  one  of  the  most  fortunate  girls  in  the  world. 
She  would  be  like  a  daughter  of  my  own  ;  I  should  have 
to  introduce  her  and  chaperon  her,  to  take  her  mother's 
place,  in  fact.  I  myself  shotdd  like  it  very  much.  The 
question  is,  should  you  ?  " 

"  What  difference  could  it  make  to  me  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  great  deal,  my  dear  Bertrand  ;  some  gentlemen 
would  not  like  the  introduction  of  a  young  and  beautifvd 
girl  in  the  household.  But  you  have  always  seemed  so 
adverse  to  anything  of  this  kind  ;  you  have  lived  alone 
with  me  for  so  many  years  I  am  afraid  you  would  hardl/ 


THE  DUEE*S  SECBST.  103 

like  Buch  a  companion  as  a  young  girl  of  this  Juud  would 
be.  It  would  certainly  make  a  difference  ;  we  should 
have  to  go  out  more  ;  we  must  give  more  balls  and  par- 
ties ;  lead  altogether  a  gayer  life  than  we  do  now  ;  be- 
sides which,  if  I  take  a  mother's  place  to  Lady  Valentine, 
you  must  of  course  in  some  kind  of  way  take  the  place  of 
a  brother.  You  are  so  wedded  to  your  bachelor  habits  I 
am  afraid  you  will  find  it  troublesome,  Bertrand.  You 
must  think  it  over  to-day,  and  let  me  know  your  decision 
before  post-time  this  evening." 

"  I  need  not  take  so  long  a  time,  mother  ;  we  can  very 
well  discuss  this  question  now." 

An  idea  had  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  if  his 
mother  had  some  one  else  to  look  after  she  would  have 
much  less  time  for  anxiety  over  him,  and  that  altogether 
it  might,  perhaps,  be  the  best  possible  way  out  of  taking 
attention  from  him. 

*'  I  do  not,  in  fact,  think  that  there  need  be  any  discus- 
sion about  the  matter.  I  do  not  wish  to  live  for  myself. 
My  habits,  as  you  call  them,  are  not  of  much  consequence  ; 
I  can  adapt  myself  to  any  others.  I  am  only  sorry  that 
yon  have  no  daughter  that  could  comfort  you.  Let  her 
come,  by  all  means.  The  more  I  think  of  it,  the  better  I 
like  it." 

The  duchess  looked  not  only  immensely  pleased  but 
very  much  relieved.  She  did  what  was  unusual  with  her 
— she  bent  down  and  kissed  him. 

"  I  am  dehghted,  Bertrand,"  she  said  ;  "  nothing  could 
have  pleased  me  more.  It  is  but  the  commencement  of 
the  season  now  ;  she  will  be  here  by  the  beginning  of 
next  week,  I  should  imagine." 

"  Yes  ;  if  you  write  to-day,"  said  the  duke  ;  he  laughed, 
as  he  continued  :  "  Why,  mother,  it  wiU  make  quite  a  sen- 
sation. I  believe  this  is  the  first  young  lady  you  have 
inti  educed  to  the  world." 

"  It  is.  I  have  not  had  many  of  the  cares  of  a  chap- 
eron," said  the  duchess.  "  I  must  say  that  it  wiU  cheer 
me.  I  would  far  rather,  though,  that  it  had  been  a  wife 
of  yours." 

"  All  comes  in  time,"  he  replied.  "  For  some  reasons,  I 
am  sorry  that  Lady  Nell  married  so  young,  she  was  a 
nicB  companion  for  you." 

"  I  am  happy  enough,  Bertrand,  in  the  promises  you 


104  THE  duke's  secbst. 

have  given  me,"  said  her  grace.  "  Now  I  will  answer  «Bjr 
letter  and  give  my  orders.  I  must  have  a  suite  of  rooms 
furnished  for  Lady  Valentine — something  girlish  and 
pretty.  At  her  age  chintz  and  lace  are  better  than  silk 
and  velvet.  She  must  have  nice  rooms.  I  will  ask  Sido- 
nie  to  find  a  nice,  bright  maid  for  her.  She  will  want  a 
horse,  too  ;  but  I  will  leave  you  to  see  to  that,  Bertrand." 

"  I  will  attend  to  it  with  pleasure,  mother,"  he  replied. 

"For  some  things,"  sa'i  the  d  hess,  plaintively,  " i 
would  far  rather  she  had  ^oined  us .  irst  at  Rood  Castl'^ 
I  should  have  liked  to  havi  >  trained  lior  a  little  before  she 
went  much  into  society  ,  tis  it  is,  I  rai  st  keep  her  quiet 
for  some  little  time.  I  am  afraid,  from  what  the  earl  says, 
that  she  has  very  littl  oducatic  n  ;  the  chances  are  that 
she  will  neither  dance,  sing,  nlay,  ride,  nor  anything 
else." 

"  She  can  soon  be  taught,  my  dear  mother,"  said  the 
duke  ;  "  a  girl  of  eighteen  will  quickly  adapt  herself  to 
all  the  habits,  forms  and  customs  of  the  world — make 
yourself  quite  happy.  It  amuses  me  to  think  what  peo- 
ple will  say  when  they  hear  that  the  stately  Duchess  of 
Cast^omayne  has  undertaken  to  chaperon  a  young  lady. 
Lady  Everleigh  will  not  like  it" 

The  lea  made  the  duchess  even  more  content.  Look 
a^  '  any  light,  it  must  be  disagreeable  to  her.  If  Lady 
Valentine  were  beautiful,  as  her  father  represented  her  to 
be,  «he  would  prove  a  formidable  rival  for  the  Misses 
Everleigh,  hom  their  lady  mother  had  forced  into  the 
front  ranks.  So  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  was  happier 
than  she  had  been  since  the  rumors  of  Lady  Everleigh'a 
imprudent  speeches  had  reached  her  ear.  The  duke  con- 
soled himself  with  the  thought  that  during  the  next  year 
he  should,  at  least,  have  breathing  time;  his  mother  would 
have  the  love  affairs  of  a  young  lady — always  peiplexing 
— to  look  aftvr.  He  sat  for  some  time  in  his  study,  think- 
ing of  what  had  been  and  what  might  have  been.  He 
might  have  uad  his  wife  and  son  here — the  wife  whose 
face  he  had  forgotten;  the  son  whom  he  had  never  seen. 

He  could  hardly  remember  Naomi's  face;  he  had  no 
picture  or  photograph  of  her,  and  during  these  twelve 
years  his  memory  of  her  had  grown  indistinct  and  dim. 
It  was  strange  that  he  remembered  her  hands  better  than 
lier  face;  he  could  recall  them;  white,  soft,  with  the  dain- 


THE  DUEE'b  SEGBET.  105 

tiest  pink,  with  the  most  tender,  delicate  touch;  she  had 
had  a  fashion  of  laying  them  on  his  head  at  times,  and  he 
always  declared  it  was  like  the  touch  of  a  butterfly's  wing. 
He  would  have  given  his  life  for  one  touch  of  that  hand 
now.  Ah,  if  he  could  but  have  hved  his  life  over  again, 
neither  father,  mother  nor  anything  else  should  come 
between  him  and  the  one  he  loved. 

He  tried  to  think  what  this  beautiful  room  of  his  would 
be  like  if  Naomi,  his  wife,  sat  smiling  there — if  the  son 
whom  he  had  never  seen  was  here  to  help  or  to  amuse  him. 

And  then  he  began  to  wonder,  in  a  most  helpless,  aim- 
less fashion,  what  Lady  Valentine  would  be  like.  He  could 
only  picture  two  types  of  girls — one  a  romp  and  a  hoiden, 
the  other  shy,  frightened  and  helpless — yet,  no  matter  what 
she  was  like,  it  would  be  a  good  thing  for  him,  because  it 
would  distract  his  mother's  attention. 

CHAPTER  XHL 

LADY  VALENTINE. 

A  BEAUTIFUL  evening,  one  of  the  first  in  June,  and  even 
in  the  great  metropohs  its  chai*m  is  felt;  the  air  is  sweet 
and  balmy,  the  sky  clear  and  blue,  the  trees  are  green  in 
the  parks.  In  the  heart  of  the  city  this  evening  the  shops, 
warehouses,  magazines,  store-houses  and  places  of  business 
are  closed;  in  the  fashionable  quarters  there  is  a  dead 
calm,  the  roll  of  carriages  was  stopped,  and  the  evening 
engagements  are  held  in  abeyance. 

At  Kood  House  there  is  nothing  on  the  tapis — no  din- 
ner, no  party,  no  ball.  The  duchess  had  dechned  all  en- 
gagements, because  she  was  expecting  Lady  Valentine; 
everything  had  been  arranged  in  the  most  amicable  and 
suitable  fashion.  The  young  girl  was  coming  to  England 
under  the  charge  of  Lord  and  Lady  Heathcote,  who  had 
been  abroad  for  some  time  and  were  now  returning  home. 
Lady  Heathcote  had  Uked  her  very  much,  and  had  been 
dehghted  to  take  the  charge  of  so  beautiful  and  charming 
a  girl.  The  earl's  letters  had  touched  the  proud,  am- 
bitious heart  of  the  duchess;  he  loved  this,  his  only  child, 
so  dearly;  he  was  so  anxious  that  she  should  be  happy. 
Well  cared  for — that  she  should  at  last  taste  some  of  the 
gayeties  of  youth,  and  see  something  of  the  pleasures  of 
life;  he  was  so  anxious  that,  having  no  mother  to  sxa* 


106  rSE  dttee's  secret. 

round  her  with  most  tender  love  and  care,  she  should  not 
give  her  love  and  heart  in  vain.  The  most  beautiful  part 
of  the  last  letter  which  the  duchess  had  received  from  him 
was  this: 

"  I  have  never  known,"  wrote  the  earl,  "  how  much  we 
both  lost  when  my  wife  died  uatU  now — now  that  my 
beloved  child  must  go  out  into  the  world  and  meet  her 
fate  as  other  women  do.  I  see  that  the  greatest  safe- 
guard, the  greatest  refuge  a  girl  can  have,  is  the  love  of 
a  mother.  There  will  be  no  mother  by  her  side  to  warn 
her,  to  counsel  and  guide  her;  but  you,  my  dear  duchess, 
will  do  your  best  for  her — I  know  you  will.  Men  are  al- 
ways awkward  when  it  is  a  question  of  feeling  or  senti- 
ment. You  will  find  Valentine  very  beautiful — far  above 
the  average — with  a  most  loving  heart;  she  has  seen  so 
little  of  the  world  that  she  will  be  most  likely  to  admire 
the  first  handsome  or  amiable  man  that  shows  her  atten- 
tion. I  need  not  say  to  you,  be  particular — you  will  be. 
With  beauty,  grace  and  wealth,  she  ought  to  marry  weli; 
above  all,  let  her  marry  the  man  she  loves.  My  own  de- 
sire is  to  see  her  happy;  my  own  desire  is  that  she  shall 
marry  happy,  for  I  have  not  many  years  to  Uve." 

That  letter  made  the  duchess  very  thoughtful.  It  is 
one  thing  to  chaperon  a  beautiful  girl,  but  it  is  quite 
another  thing  to  see  that  she  falls  in  love  with  the  right 
man. 

"  I  shall  be  quite  as  anxious  over  her  as  though  she 
had  been  my  own  daughter — perhaps  much  more  so. 
Perhaps  no  daughter  of  mine  would  ever  make  any  mis- 
take in  marriage — it  would  be  most  unlikely  ;  but  Lady 
Valentine  will,  after  the  fashion  of  her  kind,  most  prob- 
ably do  so." 

She  was  pondering  over  the  probable  and  possible  love 
affairs  of  the  young  heiress  when  the  carriage  drove  up 
to  the  door. 

The  duke,  at  her  grace's  solicitation,  had  received  the 
stranger.  Lord  and  Lady  Heathcote  had  arranged  to 
leave  her  at  Rood  House  as  they  drove  to  the  station. 
They  had  not  time  to  alight,  but  sent  messages  to  the 
duchess,  with  a  promise  to  call  very  soon. 

For  once  in  her  life,  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  feli 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET.  10? 

some  little  emotion — there  was  a  flusli  on  her  handsome 
face  and  a  hght  in  her  grand  eyes. 

"  What  will  she  be  hke,  Bertrand?  "  she  cried. 

"  We  shall  soon  see,  mother,"  he  answered. 

Then  the  door  opened,  and  Lady  Valentine  Arden  was 
announced. 

A  tall,  slender  girl  entered,  who,  although  the  night 
was  warm,  was  wrapped  in  a  dark  traveling  cloak.  The 
duchess  went  forward  to  meet  her.  The  loveliest  face  in 
the  wide  world  smiled  at  her  from  under  the  shade  of  a 
travehng  hat — a  face  so  lovely  that  for  some  moments  she 
was  silent  from  sheer  wonder,  then  the  sweetest  voice  in 
the  world  said: 

"  Are  you  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  ?" 

"Yes;  and  you  are  Lady  Valentine.  How  pleased  I 
am  to  see  you.  I  bid  you  welcome  to  England.  This  is 
your  first  visit  to  your  native  land,  is  it  not  ?" 

•'  Yes,  my  first;  and  I  have  been  longing  to  come  here 
aU  my  hfe." 

"There  was  the  most  delicious  foreign  accent,  just 
enough  to  charm — a  piquant,  beautifiil  intonation  whiok 
gave  greater  sweetness  to  the  English  tongue  than  eithei 
mother  or  son  ever  heard  before.  Then  the  duchess  be- 
thought herself  of  her  son,  and  in  a  few  words  introduced 
him  to  her  charge. 

"  I  did  not  know,"  she  said,  "  that  you  were  grown  up; 
my  father  spoke  of  you  as  though  you  were  a  boy." 

"  Would  you  hke  me  better  if  I  were  a  boy  ?"  asked  the 
duke,  laughingly.  "If  so,  I  shall  feel  inclined  to  take 
some  of  my  years  away." 

"You  could  not — no — I  think  it  is  best — but  how  sur- 
prised papa  will  be!" 

The  dark,  clear  eyes  looked  admiringly  at  him  ;  it  was 
plainly  seen  that  the  young  girl  was  impressed  in  his  favor, 
he  had  never  seen  admiration  more  plainly  expressed. 
Suddenly,  too,  those  words  returned  to  him,  that  she  was 
simple  as  a  child  of  ten,  and  he  realized  for  the  first  time 
what  true  simplicity  meant. 

"  She  wiU  say  anything  she  thinks,"  and  he  stood  aghast 
at  the  prospect.     Her  eyes  were  upon  him. 

"  How  difi:erent  Englishmen  are  from  foreigners,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  grown  tired  of  dark  faces,  and  longed  to 
pep  one  that  was  fair." 


108  THE  dtjke's  secret. 

The  duchess  laughed. 

"  You  have  all  the  instincts  of  an  Englishwoman,"  she 
said.  "  I  am  like  you  in  that  respect ;  I  prefer  English 
faces.  You  will  like  to  go  to  your  room  now,  Lady  Val- 
entine ;  you  must  feel  tired  after  your  long  journey." 

"  It  was  too  pleasant  and  too  full  of  novelty  for  me  to 
tire  of  it ;  and  all  the  way  I  was  thinking  of  you,  wonder- 
ing what  you  would  be  like,  and  if  I  should  be  happy  with 
you." 

"  A  terrible  child  for  saying  what  she  thinks,"  thought 
the  duchess  ;  but  the  duke  began  to  feel  a  certain  pleas- 
ure in  her  freshness. 

•■  I  hope  you  will  be  happy,"  said  her  grace  ;  "  we  will 
do  all  in  our  power  to  make  you  so." 

'•I  did  not  like  the  idea  at  all  at  first,"  said  Lady  Val- 
entine. "  I  had  never  been  away  from  papa  for  many 
hours,  and  I  thought  I  must  die  if  I  had  to  leave  him." 

•*  You  have  been  his  constant  companion,  then  ?  "  said 
the  duke. 

"  Yes ;  no  father  and  daughter  could  have  spent  more 
time  together  than  we  have. 

"But  how  have  you  managed  about  your  education  ?  " 
asked  the  duchess.  "  The  usual  thing  is  for  a  young  lady 
to  spend  her  time  in  study." 

"  I  am  not  educated,"  said  Lady  Valentine.  "  Papa 
says  there  is  plenty  of  time  to  make  up  for  deficiencies." 

"Not  educated!  "  repeated  the  duchess,  in  a  tone  of 
horror.     "  My  dear  child,  there  must  be  some  mistake." 

"  I  mean  not  properly  educated.  I  can  speak  French, 
Italian  and  German  just  as  well  as  English — better  than 
English,  in  fact." 

"  Do  you  play  ?  "  asked  the  duchess. 

*'  Yes  ;  the  piano  and  the  harp.  I  had  masters  fo* 
both.' 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  you  said  you  were  not  educated/ 
cried  the  duchess. 

"  I  am  not  ;  I  have  never  had  a  lesson  in  my  hfe." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  her  grace,  "  that  you  are  highly 
accompHshed." 

"  That  was  what  papa  said.  I  am  accomplished,  but 
not  educated." 

"A  common  state  of  things,  but  seldom  so  frankl/ 
pwned,"  thought  the  duchess. 


THE  DUKE'S  SECBET.  109 

*'  We  are  putting  you  quite  through  a  catechism,"  she 
said.  "  You  shall  teU  us  more  when  you  have  rested.  "We 
dine  at  seven.  I  thought  you  would  like  an  hour's  rest. 
You  must  have  a  nice  cup  of  tea — Enghsh  tea,  in  the 
English  fashion — that  is  the  best  restorative  after  a  jour^* 
ney." 

The  young  heiress  was  taken  then  to  the  suite  of  rooms 
provided  for  her,  where  she  found  her  new  maid  in  at^ 
tendance — a  pretty,  bright-eyed  Parisian,  by  name  Laura 
Despines — to  whom  Lady  Valentine,  in  her  quick,  impul- 
sive fashion,  took  a  great  liking  at  once. 

She  was  dehghted  with  the  magnificent  apartments. 

"I  am  very  fortunate,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  to  have  a 
duchess  for  a  kinswoman." 

There  were  no  rooms  like  these  at  Nice.  The  outlook 
from  the  windows  pleased  her  most;  to  be  able  to  watch 
the  birds  as  they  flew  from  tree  to  tree;  to  watch  the 
herds  of  graceful  deer  in  the  park;  to  watch  the  tall  trees, 
and  the  free  tossing  of  the  great  branches  in  the  wind. 

"  It  was  better,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  than  all  the 
mountain  scenery.  Nothing  could  be  so  sweet,  so  soft,  so 
quiet,  as  this  beautiful  English  green." 

She  drank  the  cup  of  tea,  and  then,  before  she  would 
even  look  at  the  beautiful  dresses  awaiting  her  inspection 
she  wrote  to  her  father.  Her  letter  was  amusing  in  its 
frankness. 

"  The  duchess  is  very  handsome,"  she  wrote,  "  and  does 
not  look  at  all  old,  but  very  proud.  I  should  not  think 
that  there  is  a  queen  or  empress  who  looks  more  proud 
or  more  royal.  She  is  verj'  kind,  but  when  I  look  at  her 
I  think  of  Semiramis,  Boadicea,  Cleopatra,  and  ah  the 
queens  of  history.  I  thought  her  son  was  a  boy,  but  in- 
stead of  that  he  is  a  very  handsome  man — I  Hke  him  very 
much  indeed.  I  can  not  help  thinking  that  I  shall  like 
him  better  than  his  mother.  He  has  beautiful  eyes  ;  they 
look  so  kind  and  true.  I  was  struck  with  him  the  mo- 
ment I  saw  him.  Do  you  remember,  at  the  Countess  de 
Sarguin's  in  the  large  salon,  there  is  a  picture  of  San  Se- 
bastian ?  Do  you  remember  how  often  you  and  I  have 
looked  at  that  face,  and  said  that  it  was  the  most  beauti- 
ful, and  yet  the  saddest,  we  had  ever  seen  ?  Our  duke 
resembles  it  exactly  ;  his  face  has  just  the  samo  sad, 


110  THE  duke's  sbobst. 

clear  look  upon  it.  One  thing  I  did  notice— his  eyes  and 
his  lips  never  smiled  at  the  same  time.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  I  shall  like  him  very  much  indeed.  He  seemed 
amused  at  me,  as  though  I  were  a  child,  and  the  duchess 
asked  many  questions  about  my  education.  I  shall  write 
to  you  every  day,  papa,  and  tell  you  everything  that 
passes,  and  I  shall  send  my  letters — which  will  be  like  a 
diary — each  week. 

"  I  shall  tell  you  all  about  the  duke,  and  all  that  he 
does." 

When  the  Lord  of  Arden  read  that  letter,  he  was  for  a 
short  time  quite  dismayed.  What  if,  in  risking  to  intro- 
duce his  beautiful  daughter  into  the  world,  he  had  brought 
her  to  her  doom  ?  But  then  he  consoled  himself  by  think- 
ing that  she  was  but  a  child. 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

ON  DANGEEOUS   GROUND. 

The  duke  would  hardly  own  to  himself  that  he  was 
cvMiious  to  see  Lady  Valentine  again.  She  was  so  wrapped 
up  in  her  traveling-cloak,  hat  and  veil  that  be  had  hardly 
seen  ^er  face,  only  just  enough  of  it  to  know  that  it  was 
remarkably  beautiful.  He  longed  to  see  more  of  it,  yet 
he  would  not  own  to  himself  that  he  longed  to  see  it.  It 
was  courtesy  to  bis  mother's  guest,  he  believed,  that 
made  him  wait  patiently  for  dinner  and  spend  the  even- 
ing at  heme,  instead  of  going  off  to  his  dearly  loved 
club. 

He  had  s*^  nn  that  her  face  was  beautiful,  but  he  was  not 
prepared  for  the  vision  of  loveliness  that  dazzled  his  eyes 
like  bright  sunshine. 

Lady  Valentine  came  down  dressed  for  dinner,  and  it 
was  many  a  long  day  since  the  duke  had  seen  such  fault- 
less, high-bred  lot'eliness.  She  had  chosen  her  most  be- 
coming dress — a  pale-blue  velvet,  richly  trimmed  with 
pearls — and  it  fitteoi  her  to  perfection ;  her  figure  was  all 
grace  and  harmony,  overy  line  and  every  curve  in  it  was 
perfect,  supple,  roundsd,  graceful,  with  free  and  exquisite 
grace  of  gesture  and  motion.  He  thought  of  a  descrip- 
tion he  had  read  of  a  heroine  in  some  story,  "  whose  every 
movement  seemed  to  bo  in  harmony  with  some  hidden 


THE  duke's  secret.  Ill 

music."  Many  women  are  beautiful,  but  their  Deauty  is  of 
jittle  value  unless  accompanied  with  grace.  A  graceful 
woman  without  beauty  is  far  more  attractive  than  a  beau- 
tiful woman  without  grace.  The  peculiar  and  greatest  gift 
— grace  of  gesture,  of  movement— was  the  first  thing  that 
struck  him  in  Lady  Valentine;  whatever  attitude  she 
assumed  was  always  natural  and  picturesque.  His  eyes 
followed  her  with  delight;  every  fold  of  her  dress  had  a 
grace  of  its  own.  Her  hands  and  arms  were  perfect— round, 
white,  superbly  shaped  arms,  bare  to  the  dimpled,  pea^'^y 
shoulders;  hands  that  were  dainty  and  beautiful;  she  used 
them  more  in  conversation  than  is  ueua!  with  gentle- 
women in  England.  Those  marvelous  white  hands  said  »t 
times  even  more  than  her  words  did. 

He  never  tired  of  looking  at  her  face.  It  was  not  so 
much  the  beauty  of  feature  which  attracted  him  as  the 
glorious  expression — the  fire,  the  eloquence,  the  poetry, 
the  passion — it  was  that,  changed  twenty  times  in  an  hour, 
from  gay  to  grave,  from  pathos  to  fun,  from  poetry  t^ 
comedy;  he  had  seen  nothing  like  it. 

The  features  were  very  beautiful — faultless  in  outline,  ok 
delicate  oval — a  white  dimpled  chin,  and  a  lovely  fresh 
mouth  that  was  the  very  home  of  love  and  grace  ;  every 
play  of  it,  every  line  round  it  beautiful ;  dainty  curves 
and  dainty  dimples  that  would  have  driven  one  distracted 
who  dwelt  upon  them.  Her  eyes  were  as  blue  as  the 
lovely  violet  hue  that  one  sees  in  the  depths  of  a  heart's- 
ease  ;  she  had  the  dark,  straight  brows  that  the  Greeks 
of  old  gave  to  their  goddesses  :  a  white  brow  and  a  mass 
of  fine  golden-brown  hair,  golden  in  the  sunshine,  brown 
in  the  shade.  She  was  tall,  and  the  grace  almost  of  child- 
hood lingered  about  her.  Lady  Valentine  could  do  and 
say  things  no  one  else  would  ;  that  which  in  her  was  fair, 
child-like  candor,  in  another  would  have  been  almost  in- 
tolerable. The  duke  would  not  have  believed  it,  if  any 
one  had  told  him  he  was  watching  the  young  girl  with 
more  pleasure  and  delight  than  he  had  felt  for  years. 

It  seemed  so  curious  to  take  her  in  to  dinner,  to  remem- 
ber that  every  day  the  beautiful,  fresh  young  face  would 
be  opposite  to  him,  to  remember  that  every  hour  in  the 
day  he  could  hear  the  fresh,  sweet  voice,  with  its  piquant, 
dainty  accent.  Looking  from  the  fair  young  face  of  the 
girl  to  the  handsome  face  of  his  stately  mother,  he  said  tP 


112  THE  DUKE'S  SECEET. 

himself  that  no  where  in  all  England  could  one  find  two 
such  exquisite  women. 

"  I  can  hai'dly  realize,"  he  said  to  her,  "  that  you  will  be 
here  every  day ;  the  duchess  and  I  have  been  so  long 
alone." 

**  You  have  visitors,  have  you  not  I"  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  very  often.  We  give  more  balls  than  dinner- 
parties.    Do  you  like  dancing,  Lady  Valentine  ?" 

"  I  never  tire  of  it;  but  then  I  have  never  danced  with 
a  gentleman  yet.  Papa  never  allowed  me  to  go  to  a 
ball  or  dancing-party.  I  knew  some  nice  girls  at  Nice; 
our  drawing-room  was  large,  and  Avhen  the  band  played 
we  waltzed  for  hours  together." 

"  A  mild  form  of  dissipation."  said  the  duke,  with  a 
smile. 

"We  were  a  mild  form  of  people,"  she  replied;  and 
the  duchess  thought  to  herself  that,  child  as  she  was, 
the  young  lady  had  a  very  good  idea  of  giving  an  answer. 

They  watched  her  with  critical  eyes,  but  her  grace  and 
good-breeding  were  perfect;  every  moment  the  duchees 
grew  fonder  of  her. 

"  A  girl  really  after  my  own  heart,"  she  said  to  herself 
more  than  once. 

The  dinner  passed  off  most  pleasantly;  the  duchess 
and  her  young  charge  went  into  the  drawing-room,  while 
the  duke  finished  his  wine.  As  a  rule  when  he  had  no 
engagements,  he  spent  his  evenings  at  the  club;  but  to- 
night he  never  thought  of  going  out;  he  wanted  to  amuse 
his  mother's  guest.  When  he  went  into  the  drawing- 
room  he  thought  he  had  never  seen  a  more  beautiful  pic- 
ture. The  lamps  were  lighted,  and  a  flood  of  soft  golden 
light  filled  the  room-;  soft,  subdued,  and  mellow,  it  fell  on 
the  fresh  radiant  face  of  the  young  girl  and  on  the  hand- 
some, stately  figure  of  the  duchess;  the  windows  were 
wide  open,  and  the  sweet  night  wind  stirred  the  hang- 
ings. The  duchess  reclined  in  an  easy-chair;  Lady  Val- 
entine had  taken  a  book  and  sat  quite  at  her  ease,  and  in 
the  most  graceful  of  attitudes,  on  a  couch. 

The  duke  went  up  to  her  at  once. 

"  What  are  you  reading,  Lady  Valentine  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  very  nice  story,"  she  replied.  "  Papa  told  me  tliat 
the  thing  I  should  enjoy  most  in  England  would  be  the 
lK)oksi  we  had  not  many  books  at  Nice.      This  story  i« 


THE  duke's  secret.  113 

called  'Patricia  Tremhalt' ;  it  is  written  by  Mrs.  E.  Lynn 
Linton,  and  I  like  it  exceedingly.  Patricia  is  a  noble 
character,  but  the  other  is  untrue.     I  detest  untruth. 

"  I  should  imagine  that  you  do,"  said  the  duke;  "still 
the  want  of  truth  is  a  very  common  failing,  do  you  not 
think  so?" 

"  I  hope  not,"  she  replied.  "  I  have  seen  very  little  of 
people;  but  if  I  knew  any  one  who  had  told  me  a  real  un- 
truth with  the  deliberate  intention  of  deceiving  me,  I 
should  never  like  him.  I  often  wonder  how  people  have 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  being  insincere ;  it  seems  to  me 
always  so  much  easier  to  be  quite  straightforward  and 
truthful." 

"It  is  not  the  way  of  the  world,"  said  the  duke, 
thoughtfully. 

"  Is  it  not  ?  It  will  always  be  my  way,"  she  answered; 
and  he  began  to  wonder  what  she  would  say  if  she  knew 
the  secret  of  his  life,  and  how  utterly  he  had  failed  in 
truth  and  honor  once.  That  reflection  made  him  sad  and 
grave ;  she  saw  the  change  that  came  over  his  face,  and 
wondered  at  it.  She  looked  at  him  with  her  clear  violet 
eyes.  "  You  are  so  much  like  a  picture  that  I  love  very 
much  at  Nice,"  she  said  suddenly. 

"  I  wish  I  were  the  picture  if  I  might  share  the  same 
happy  fate,"  he  said,  laughingly. 

She  did  not  seem  to  understand  even  the  meaning  of 
his  words. 

"Papa  and  I  went  every  day  to  look  at  it,"  she  con- 
tinued. 

"It  is  so  strange;  but  the  face  might  have  been  copied 
from  yours." 

She  was  so  earnest  herself  that  those  who  spoke  to  her 
were  compelled  to  be  earnest  themselves. 

"  What  is  the  picture  ?"  asked  the  duke;  "  tell  me  about 
it" 

"  It  is  the  martyrdom  of  San  Sebastian,"  she  replied. 
"Do  you  not  know  it?  San  Sebastian  is  tied  to  a  tree,  and 
the  soldiers  are  preparing  to  let  fly  their  arrows  at  him; 
he  looks  so  divine,  his  face  has  the  light  of  heaven  in  it; 
yet  there  is  something  so  sad  about  the  face,  the  eyes,  and 
the  mouth;  when  you  speak  the  likeness  is  not  so  strong, 
but  when  you  are  silent  you  look  sad  and  then  your  face 
has  just  the  same  lines  as  San  Sebastian's" 


114  THE  duke's  SSCBXT. 

"You  are  a  keen  observer,"  said  the  duke.  "No  one 
ever  told  me  before  that  I  looked  sad  when  I.  was  silent." 

"  You  do,"  she  replied,  with  a  little  nod  of  her  charming 
head;  "  you  look  like  some  one  who  has  imhappy  thoughts, 
really  unhappy  onea" 

He  was  slightly  confused,  not  knowing  whether  his 
mother  would  hear  the  conversation  or  not. 

"  Every  one  has  sad  thoughts  at  times,"  he  said,  gently. 
"I  am  no  exception  to  the  rule." 

"I  should  have  thought,"  she  said,  "that  you  were  the 
happiest  man  in  the  wide  world." 

The  happiest!  Alasl  it  was  not  so  very  long  since  he 
had  declared  himself  the  most  miserable  of  men. 

He  looked  at  the  beautiful  young  face. 

"I  have  everything  to  make  me  happy,"  he  replied; 
but  he  knew  that  even  as  the  arrows  had  found  their  home 
in  the  heart  of  San  Sebastian,  so  the  one  great  trouble  of 
his  life  was  the  sharpest  of  all  arrows  to  him. 

"  I  have  often  had  sad  thoughts,"  said  Lady  Valentine  ; 
but  they  have  been  about  my  father's  health  of  late, 
though  I  am  sure  he  has  never  been  better  ;  yet  he  will 
never  be  able  to  live  in  England  again." 

"  Do  you  think  that  you  shall  like  England  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  am  sure  I  shalL  I  feel  more  at  home  here  now  than 
I  did  at  Nice." 

To  his  mind  there  came  something  like  a  wish  that  she 
"was  never  to  leave  them  again  ;  her  fair  presence  bright- 
ened that  magnificent  room,  made  it  more  cheerful  and 
home-like  ;  even  the  duchess  felt  the  charm  of  the  sweet, 
graceful  presence,  of  the  clear  sunny  laughter.  She  left 
her  chair  and  crossed  the  room  to  where  they  were  sitting; 
with  a  gentleness  quite  unusual  to  her,  she  bent  over  thf 
girl  and  kissed  her  fair  cheek. 

"  I  can  feel  how  much  Lord  Arden  misses  you  by  tho 
happiness  I  feel  at  seeing  you.  The  longing  of  my  heart 
has  always  been  to  have  a  daughter.  I  have  often  thought 
of  adopting  one.  No  house  ever  seems  to  me  complete 
unless  there  is  a  young  girl  about  it." 

"  Papa  often  deplored  the  fact  that  he  had  no  son," 
Sfaid  Lady  Valentine.  "  You  would  not  change  your  son 
for  me,  would  you." 

What  a  sweet  voice  it  was !  True  and  clear  as  a  bird'i, 
with  the  most  beautiful  trilla. 


THE  duke's  secret.  115 

••  No,"  laughed  the  duchess.  "  I  could  not  even  if  I 
Would." 

"  You  will  have  a  daughter  when  your  son  marries," 
said  Lady  Valentine. 

"Yes,"  repeated  the  duchess,  with  a  sigh,  "that  is 
quite  true." 

They  were  on  dangerous  ground  ;  the  duke  thought  it 
would  be  much  better  to  change  the  conversation. 

"I  should  like  much  to  hear  you  sing.  Lady  Valen- 
tine," he  said.     "  Will  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  with  pleasure.  Nay,  I  want  no  lights,  I  play 
and  sing  without  notes  ;  they  are  only  in  the  way,"  and 
she  went  to  the  piano,  the  duke  following  her  and  taking 
his  place  by  her  side. 

CHAPTER  XV. 

A    BEMINISCENOB. 

**  What  kind  of  music  do  you  like  best  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Valentine,  turning  her  face  to  the  duke.  "  Music  was 
papa's  one  recreation  ;  he  never  tired  of  it ;  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  I  studied  with  all  my  heart.  I  can  sing  what 
you  like — English  ballads,  French  chansons,  Spanish 
songs,  Italian  scivas,  German  melodies — anything  you 
like ! " 

"Give  me  an  English  ballad,"  he  said;  and  the  next 
moment  the  room  was  filled  with  a  flood  of  the  sweetest 
melody  he  had  ever  heard. 

The  words  were  as  simple  as  they  were  sweet 

"When  twiliglit  dews  are  falling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  sea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star  whose  beams  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou,  too,  on  that  orb  so  cleur, 

Ah,  dost  thou  gaze  at  even. 
And  think,  though  lo  t  forever  here, 

Thou'll  yet  be  mine  in  heaven? 

"  There's  not  a  garden  walk  I  tread. 

There's  not  a  flower  I  see,  love, 
But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that's  fle4. 

Some  joy  I've  lost  with  thee,  love. 
Aad  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near 

When,  friends  and  foes  forgiven. 
The  pains,  the  ills  we've  wept  through  beci^ 

May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven." 


116  THE  duke's  secret. 

The  duke  understood  what  her  father  meant  by  saying 
that  she  sung  as  the  birds  lilted.  It  was  true,  he  thought, 
all  he  had  read  of  the  golden-throated  daughters  of  the 
South,  whose  voices  lure  the  hearts  of  men  from  their 
breast.  He  thought  of  the  German  Lorelie,  who,  singing 
as  she  combs  her  golden  hair,  drew  the  souls  of  men  in 
her  deadly  embrace,  drew  the  highest  and  most  honored 
under  the  cold  waters,  and  never  let  them  escape  again. 

The  girl  turned  her  bright  face  to  him. 

**  Do  you  Kke  that  ?  "  she  asked. 

*•  Yes,  I  think  it  is  very  sweet  and  very  sad,"  he  replied. 

"Do  you  beUeve  itto  be  true,"  she  continued,  "that 
what  we  lose  on  earth  we  shall  find  in  heaven  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  have  never  thought  of  it  at  all,"  he 
replied. 

It  was  an  unusual  style  of  conversation  for  him. 

"  I  think  of  it  very  often,"  she  continued.  "  That  is  one 
of  papa's  favorite  songs;  and  I  have  sung  it  so  often  that 
the  words  are  impressed  on  my  heart." 

"  They  are  very  beautiful  words,"  said  the  duke,  rather 
at  a  loss  how  to  carry  on  the  conversation,  heaven  not  be- 
ing the  theme  that  the  generality  of  young  ladies  chose 
for  conversing  with  him. 

Her  white  fingers  moved  slowly  over  the  keys. 

"Yes,"  she  continued,  **I  have  thought  a  great  deal 
about  it,  and  I  have  drawn  my  own  conclusions." 

"  What  are  they  ? "  asked  the  duke,  wondering  what 
her  thoughts  and  ideas  really  were. 

"  I  am  sure,"  she  replied,  "  that  it  is  better  for  one  to 
have  the  best  love  in  heaven,  instead  of  on  earth.  I  look 
at  it  in  this  way — the  life  on  earth  lasts  but  a  short  time, 
while  the  life  in  heaven  never  ends.  Is  it  not  better  to 
have  the  unending  life  with  the  one  you  love  than  this 
which  ends  so  quickly." 

"  Yes,  if  you  can  believe  it  yourself  and  make  others 
believe  it,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Who  would  not  believe  it?  "  she  asked,  with  the  rap- 
t«rou8  faith  of  youth. 

"  Many  people  have  no  faith  in  heaven  at  all,"  said  the 
duke  ;  "  others  have  a  kind  of  indistinct  belief  that  it 
exists  ;  but  they  are  so  little  sure  of  it,  they  would  make 
no  sacrifice  in  this  world  to  win  it.  To  all  such,  the  idea 
of  love  in  hoaven  would  present  but  few  attractiong,'* 


THE  duke's  SECEET.  11? 

The  beautiful  face  grew  graye  and  serious  as  he 
spoke. 

"  I  can  only  say  what  I  think  myself,"  she  said,  slowly. 
•'If  I  loved  any  one  very  much,  and  it  were  possible  that  I 
could  choose  whether  I  would  live  forty  years  on  earth 
with  the  one  beloved,  or  whether  I  would  love  him  for- 
ever in  heaven,  I  shoidd  choose  the  latter." 

Looking  at  her  bright,  spiritual  face,  with  its  poetry 
and  its  ideality,  there  was  not  the  least  idea  but  that  she 
would  really  make  that  choice. 

"  I  ha^e  never  thought  about  such  things,"  said  the 
duke,  "  but  I  do  not  think  I  should  agree  with  you;  I 
should  be  far  more  incUned  to  take  the  earthly  love." 

She  looked  at  him  with  grave  consideration. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "you  have  never  cared  very 
much  about  any  one  in  that  kind  of  way." 

He  wondered  what  she  would  say  if  she  knew  how  much 
he  had  cared  for  some  one — with  how  mad  a  love,  and 
how  cruelly  he  had  treated  her.  With  the  clear  gaze  of 
those  superb  eyes  upon  him,  the  duke  felt  sure  that  if 
she  knew  anything  of  his  secret  there  would  be  no  friend- 
ship, no  liking  for  him. 

"  People  differ,'  she  said.  "  Papa  has  been  so  ill,  he  has 
suffered  so  much,  he  has  been  so  often  near  death  that  it 
seems  to  me  we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  looking  at 
things  more  in  the  light  of  heaven  than  of  earth." 

He  wondered  still  more,  and  he  liked  her  so  much  the 
better  for  it.  She  was  so  unlike  other  girls;  but  then 
who  but  Lady  Valentine  would  have  tried  to  have 
amused  a  young  duke  about  talking  about  heaven  ? 

"I  do  not  think,"  she  said,  suddenly,  "that  people 
often  express  their  best  thoughts  and  highest  desires — I 
have  often  wondered  if  words  could  be  foimd  for  them. 
I  think  there  are  many  thoughts,  many  wishes,  many 
desires  we  have  which  could  be  brought  to  measure.  Do 
you  know  a  beautiful  song  called  '  Lnperfectus,'  vrritten 
by  an  American  poet  ?" 

"  No,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  do  not  remember  it." 

"  Then,  if  you  are  willing,  I  will  sing  it  for  you,"  she  re- 
plied. "  It  sajs  what  X  mean  so  much  better  th. Ji  I  can 
pay  it  mysetf 


118  iiHi)  puke's  secbet. 

She  began,  in  the  Yoice  that  he  thought  sweeter  than 
anj  other : 

*'  I  wonder  if  ever  a  Bong  was  Biing 

Bntthe  singer's  heart  song  sweeter  ; 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  rhyme  was  rung 

But  the  thoughts  surpassed  the  meter  ; 
I  wonder  if  ever  a  sculptor  wrought 
Till  the  cold  stone  echoed  his  ardent  thought ; 
Or  if  ever  a  painter  with  light  and  shade 
The  dream  of  his  innermost  heart  portrayed. 

**  I  wonder  if  ever  a  rose  wa«  found, 

And  there  might  not  be  a  fairer  ; 
Or  if  ever  a  glittering  gem  was  ground 

And  we  dreamed  not  of  a  rarer. 
Ah,  never  on  earth  shall  we  find  the  best. 
But  it  waits  for  us  in  the  land  of  rest ; 
And  a  perfect  thing  we  shall  never  behold 
Till  we  pass  the  portals  of  shining  gold." 

She  turned  to  him  when  she  had  finished. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  Do  you  understand  what  I  mean?" 

"  Yes,  better  than  I  did.  You  mean  that  the  highest, 
the  holiest,  the  best  thoughts,  desires,  and  wishes  of  men 
are  not  so  easy  to  put  into  words  as  their  lowest." 

"  That  is  it.     What  do  you  think  of  my  song  ?" 

"  I  like  it.  Strange  to  say  I  have  often  thought  of  that 
same  thing — that  no  matter  what  we  possess,  there  seems 
something  better  worth  possessing." 

"  A  grand  old  writer  says,  *  That  the  soul  is  infinite, 
and  can  only  be  satisfied  with  an  infinite  love,' "  added 
Lady  Valentine.  "  Are  you  tired  of  my  singing,  or  would 
you  like  more  of  it  ?" 

"  I  should  never  tire  of  your  singing,  or  of  your  conver- 
sation," he  replied. 

And  she  never  dreamed  of  doubting  his  words.  She 
turned  again  to  the  notes,  and  for  a  few  minutes  her  fin- 
gers wandered  over  the  keys,  and  then  she  sung  an  old- 
fashioned  Scotch  ballad  so  sweetly  and  with  such  pathos, 
that  the  tears  came  to  the  eyes  of  the  duchess.  She  went 
over  to  her. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Valentine,"  she  said,  "you  have  done 
what  no  other  singer  has  done ;  you  have  brought  the 
tears  to  my  eyes,  and  happiness  that  is  almost  pain  to  my 
heart.  I  hav«  npt  bewd  *  Ye  Banks  ftnd  Praes '  for  many 
yews." 


THE  duke's  secret.  119 

Stately  peeress,  a  matron  of  proudest  fame,  the  beloved, 
honored,  trusted  widow  of  one  of  England's  greatest 
nobles,  the  mother  of  the  most  ehgible  man  of  the  day. 
She  had  a  love  story  in  her  far-off  days,  when  she  was 
heiress  of  Mount  Severn,  and  went  with  her  father  to 
Scotland.  The  shooting  party  at  Glenlie  Lodge  was  joined 
by  Captain  Gordon  Stewart,  the  most  honest,  handsome, 
and  chivalrous  man  in  her  majesty's  army.  He  had  the 
beauty  of  a  Greek  god,  the  courage  and  chivalry  of  a  Bay- 
ard, the  bearing  of  a  king  ;  and  he  loved  this  beautiful 
Lady  Mount  Severn  with  all  his  heart.  He  knew  that  he 
might  as  well  have  tried  to  win  a  star  from  heaven — she 
was  not  for  him  ;  the  young  heiress  loved  him,  too,  if  love 
be  told  in  looks — but  of  what  use  was  that  ?  The  heiress 
of  Mount  Severn  had  to  contract  an  alliance,  not  to  marry  ; 
she  owned  silways  afterward  to  herself  that  she  had  done 
wrong.  Love  was  so  beautiful ;  she  had  daUied  with  it 
for  a  few  days  before  slaying  it,  and  those  few  days  were 
fatal  to  the  young  soldier.  He  presumed  to  tell  her  of  his 
love,  and  swore  that  he  would  make  for  himself  a  fame 
greater  than  Napoleon's  if  she  would  give  him  the  promise 
of  her  hand.  She  smiled  very  sweetly  and  sadly  when  she 
told  him  it  coiild  never  be  ;  she  kissed  his  lips  for  the  first 
and  last  time  and  sent  him  away  broken-hearted. 

That  last  evening  he  spent  at  Glenlie  Lodge  he  sung 
that  beautiful  old  song,  always  so  sweet  and  always  so 
sad;  sung  it  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  her  and  the  thorn  so 
sore  and  sharp  in  his  side.  He  went  away  the  day  fol- 
lowing, and  the  next  she  heard  of  him  was  that  he  had 
died  at  the  head  of  his  regiment  with  his  face  to  the  foe. 
From  that  day  to  this  the  duchess  had  never  heard  "Ye 
Banks  and  Braes;"  if  she  were  in  a  room  and  heard  the 
opening  notes,  she  left  it;  but  to-night  the  old  spell 
seemed  to  have  been  laid  upon  her;  she  Hstened,  even  to 
the  last  word,  and  then  for  the  first  time  in  many  years 
tears  came  to  her  eyes;  she  recalled  the  whole  scene  so 
vividly,  the  sun  setting  over  the  Scottish  moors,  the 
beautiful  face,  so  full  of  love  for  her,  which  she  was  never 
to  see  again.  Ah,  me !  that  love  stories  should  be  so  sad 
while  they  are  so  sweet. 

Her  heart  was  softened,  some  of  the  romance  which 
had  once  made  life  so  sweet  to  her  came  back  like  a  breath 
of  the  heather  from  the  Scotch  hills.    The  Duchess  o| 


120  THE  DUEE'S  SECBIT. 

Castlemayne — certainly  the  proudest  and  most  stately 
woman  in  England — had  not  dreamed  that  so  much 
capacity  for  emotion  was  still  left  in  her,  and  strange  to 
say,  a  deep  affection  for  the  girl  who  aroused  it  woke  up 
within  her.  It  was  such  a  picture  of  domestic  happiness; 
and  as  she  watched  the  two  a  sudden  idea  occuiTed  to 
the  duchess. 

She  had  often  urged  her  son  to  marry;  who  in  the  wide 
world  could  suit  him  one-half  so  well  as  this  beautiful 
young  girl,  to  whom  he  had  already  given  more  time  than 
she  had  ever  seen  him  devote  to  any  woman  ? 

With  such  a  daughter  as  that  how  unutterably  happy 
she  would  be,  and  as  she  feU  asleep  that  evening  the  beau- 
tiful face  of  the  young  soldier  and  the  sweet  voice  of  Lady 
Valentine  went  with  her  in  her  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XVL 

TEE  QUSXM  OF  BXkUTT. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  resolved  this  time  upon 
being  very  prudent;  that  the  duke  should  fall  in  love 
with  and  marry  Lady  Valentine  seemed  to  her  the  very 
length  of  her  ambition,  her  most  darling  wish.  The 
more  she  saw  of  Lord  Arden's  beautiful  daughter  the  bet- 
ter she  liked  her,  so  lovely,  so  bright,  so  graceful.  Even 
the  least  social  untruth  never  escaped  her  hps;  her  sovd 
was  clear  as  crystal;  she  did  not  know  how  to  be  anything 
but  truthfuL 

The  duchess  found  her  an  apt  pupil  ;  she  advised  her 
to  study  the  ways  and  habits  of  English  society  for  a  few 
days  before  she  went  out  much.  The  first  thing  of  course 
was  her  presentation,  and  fortunately  her  most  gracious 
majesty  held  a  Drawing-room  in  a  few  days.  The  duchess 
did  her  best  to  impress  upon  the  mind  of  her  charge  all 
the  grandeur  and  importance  of  this  occasion.  She  never 
wearied  of  discussing  her  costume,  the  length  of  her 
train,  the  ueight  of  her  feathers,  the  manner  in  which 
her  obeisance  to  the  queen  must  be  made  ;  how  careful 
she  must  be  to  courtesy  to  every  member  of  the  royal 
family  ;  how  she  must  contrive  to  leave  the  royal  pres- 
ence side  wise,  an  idea  which  delighted  Lady  Valentine  ; 
how  merrily  she  discussed  it ;  but  the  evening  of  this 


THE  duke's  secret.  121 

4ay,  while  they  were  speaking  of  it,  she  turned  her 
bright  face  to  the  duke. 

"  Are  you  not  going  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,"  he  replied,  "  my  mother  goes  with  you." 

"And  not  you  I"  she  cried.  "I  quite  thought  you 
were  going." 

Her  face  fell,  and  some  of  the  light  died  out  of  her 
eyes. 

"  I  shall  not  care  about  it  half  so  much  if  you  do  not 
go,"  she  repeated. 

"  But  why  not,  my  dear  child  ?  "  he  asked. 

"I  like  to  go  out  with  you,"  she  said;  "you  see  the 
humor  of  everything  just  as  I  do  myself,  and  there  are  few 
people  who  understand  real  humor ;  very  often  when  I 
laugh  most  heartily  people  wonder  what  I  am  laughing 
at;  they  are  quite  solemn  and  quiet  while  the  most  absurd 
scenes  pass  before  their  eyes.  Papa  says  my  sense  of  the 
comic  is  almost  too  great;  but  I  believe  in  laughter." 

"So  do  I,"  said  the  duke. 

"You  stop  at  the  'theory,*  she  said,  "for  you  seldom  put 
it  into  practice;  I  do  not  often  see  j^ou  laugh.  Were  you 
always  melancholy  as  you  are  now?" 

"  I  am  not  melancholy,"  he  replied. 

"No,  perhaps  that  is  not  quite  the  right  word;  you  do 
not  brighten  up  when  any  one  speaks  to  you — absorbed  is 
the  word  I  mean.  You  are  always  absorbed  in  deep  thought 
I  wonder  what  it  is  you  think  so  deeply  about." 

If  she  knew  she  would  not  look  up  at  him  with  those 
clear,  lustrous  eyes.  What,  indeed,  would  any  one  say, 
who  knew  that  he,  one  of  the  proudest  peers  in  England, 
was  always  thinking  how  he  could  find  the  wife  whom  his 
cowardice  had  lost? 

He  shuddered  when  he  thought  of  it;  but  the  sweet, 
plaintive  voice  called  him  to  himself. 

"  I  have  lost  quite  half  my  interest,"  she  said,  "  in  my 
presentation. " 

He  could  not  help  feeling  touched ;  it  was  so  long 
since  any  one  had  spoken  to  him  in  that  fashion  ;  never 
since  he  had  lost  Naomi.  He  had  kept  aloof  from  every 
one  since  then. 

"It  will  not  last  very  long,"  he  said.  " I  have  no  pre- 
text for  going,  or,  as  you  wish  it  so  much,  I  would  go.    I 


122  THB  DUKB'S  SEOEET. 

shall  be  at  home  to  dinner,  and  then  you  will  tell  me  all 
about  it " 

"Yes,  I  will  do  that;  but  it  will  not  be  as  nice  as 
having  you  there.  The  duchess  says  the  best  ball  of  the 
season  is  to  be  given  to-morrow  at  Lady  Balfour's.  Shall 
you  be  there  ?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  shall  escort  you  both,  and  we  shall  find 
ample  store  of  amusement,  Lady  Valentine. " 

"  I  shall  enjoy  the  ball  better  than  the  Drawing-room." 

Her  words  were  so  frank  and  freely  spoken  that  he 
never  dreamed  of  anything  beneath  them.  That  she 
should  like  best  to  go  out  with  him,  because  he  was 
gifted  with  a  sense  of  humor  akin  to  her  own,  seemed 
very  reasonable.  If  any  one  had  told  him  that  in  her 
girlish  heart  a  passionate  love  for  himself  was  dawning, 
he  would  not  have  believed  it.  Home  seemed  brighter 
than  ever  with  the  beautiful  face  and  musical  voice. 
There  were  times  when  he  could  have  fancied  that  a  fairy 
had  taken  up  its  abode  in  the  mansion;  every  wish  of  his 
was  so  instantaneously  gratified.  Was  it  by  magic  that 
just  when  he  felt  thirsty  claret  cup  or  iced  lemonade 
stood  ready  for  him  ?  The  duchess  had  always  looked 
well  after  her  son,  but  some  one  else  did  it  better.  Who 
stood  ready  to  greet  him  every  morning  with  a  face  like  a 
beautiful  blushing  rose,  holding  a  flower  for  his  button- 
hole, which  was  always  inserted  with  great  state  and  cere- 
mony ?  Whose  white  hands,  shining  with  gems,  poured 
out  his  tea,  knowing  to  a  nicety  how  much  cream  and 
sugar  he  liked  ?  Who  knew  exactly  what  daily  papers  he 
preferred,  and  how  he  liked  them  open  ?  Who  worked  all 
those  dainty  cigar-cases  and  slippers  which  he  found  in 
his  room  ?  Evidently  some  one  cared  for  him  very  much 
indeed — some  one  studied  his  least  wish,  his  daintiest 
tastes — some  one  must  listen  and  attend  to  every  word. 

Because  he  was  so  like  the  picture  she  loved  she  had  a 
fashion  of  calling  him  "San  Sebastian."  The  duchess 
was  amused  at  it—the  duke  liked  it,  anything  was  better 
than  a  formal  title  from  those  beautiful  lips.  He,  too, 
very  often  forgot  her  title  and  called  her  Valentine,  all  of 
which  the  duchess  remarked  with  quiet  pleasure,  but 
said  nothing;  so  many  of  her  dreams  had  been  destroyed 
the  moment  she  mentioned  them  that  she  had  resolved 
not  to  speak  of  this,  the  dearest  hope  of  all. 


THE  duke's  secret.  123 

Lacfy  ualfour's  grand  ball  of  tiie  season  always  followed 
fihe  Drawing-room;  there  one  met  again  the  beautiful 
Saces  of  the  iair  young  debutantes  who  on  that  day  began 
.heir  social  life. 

liady  Valentine  Arden  had  been  much  spoken  of-  -he>' 
bright  radiant  beauty  had  made  a  great  impression  or 
all  who  saw  her.  The  gentlemen  were  one  and  all  de&'r- 
ous  of  seeing  her  again — even  the  ladies,  the  most  crit- 
ical of  them,  had  nothing  to  say  against  her.  When  it 
was  known  that  she  would  be  at  Lady  Balfour's  ball  with 
her  Grace  of  Castlemayne,  there  were  few  who  did  not 
try  to  get  there;  a  new  beauty  is  always  so  great  a  sensa- 
tion. 

"Have  you  seen  her?  What  is  she  like?  Blonde  or 
brunette?  They  say  she  has  a  finer  figure  than  the 
Chandos  !  Beautifiil  as  a  houri,  and  rich !  A  wealthy 
heiress,  with  a  lovely  face!  Poor  Arden's  daughter!" 
said  one  of  his  friends;  "  we  must  bid  her  heartily  wel- 
come for  his  sake." 

The  chief  topic  of  conversation  that  night  in  London 
was  the  beautiful  Lady  Arden.  Just  at  that  time  all 
iVIammon  bent  in  worship  before  a  beautiful  woman  who 
had  quite  suddenly,  and  for  her  beauty's  sake,  become 
most  popular.  She  ruled  the  day — the  papers  were  filled 
with  raptures  of  her — her  words,  her  deeds,  her  ban  mots, 
her  dresses,  the  fashion  in  which  she  walked,  danced,  and 
rode  were  all  criticised. 

One  society  journal  swore  by  her,  and  in  a  manney 
made  itself  by  its  attractive  description  of  her.  A  rival 
journal  exalted  a  rival  beauty,  and  week  after  week  they 
fought  gallantly  over  these  fair  women.  As  no  ball  was 
complete  without  them,  they  were  both  invited  to  Lady 
Balfour's.  The  leading  beauty,  the  queen  of  the  day, 
Mrs.  Trelawney,  although  petted,  flattered  and  feted  as 
few  women  have  been,  was  generous  and  large  hearted. 
Mrs.  Dulwich,  on  the  contrary,  felt  something  like  cor- 
dial hatred  to  any  girl  fairer  or  even  as  fair  as  herself. 
The  rival  beauties  were  friends,  they  had  agreed  to  reign 
together,  but  they  did  not  care  to  admit  a  third.  A 
Frenchman,  watching  how  people  completely  mobbed 
Mrs.  Trelawney  in  order  to  look  at  her,  said  : 

"Mafoi,  but  pretty  faces  must  be  rare  in  Eng^land  w"***!! 
BO  much  fuss  is  made  over  one." 


124:  THE  duke's  seobet. 

These  two  beautiful  queens  of  society  took  counsel  to- 
gether when  they  met  at  Lady  Balfour's,  and  it  was 
amusing  to  watch  the  distracted  looks  of  the  gentlemen 
while  the  two  lovely  heads  were  bent  together. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  slight  commotion  in  the  room,  a 
slight  murmur  ;  and  the  rival  beauties,  still  standing  side 
by  side,  turned  to  look  at  the  cause. 

Ah,  me,  for  the  crown  and  scepter!  from  that  moment 
each  felt  it  fall  from  her  grasp.  A  group  entered  that  it 
would  take  both  painter  and  poet  to  describe.  Eirst  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  certainly  the  most  stately,  the 
handsomest,  the  proudest  matron  in  England,  resplendent 
in  superb  diamonds — every  one  knows  the  Castlemayne 
diamonds  are  among  the  finest  gems  in  the  world  ;  with 
her  came  a  girl,  beautiful  as  a  vision,  her  dress  of  white 
and  gold  falling  like  sunbeams  ;  pearls  and  rubies  on  the 
white  breast  and  fair  round  arms  ;  her  golden  brown  hair 
arranged  after  the  Grecian  fashion,  and  crowned  with  a 
toiara  of  pearls. 

Men  lost  their  hearts  and  women  their  courage,  as  they 
looked  at  her. 

By  her  side,  evidently  engrossed  with  her,  was  the 
handsome  woman-hating  duke,  who  had  never  entered  a 
ball-room  quite  in  this  fashion  before. 


CHAPTER   XVIL 

LADY      valentine's      CHOIOI. 

A  MUBMUR,  sUght  and  silvery,  followed  the  group.  Lora 
Carlton  was  quite  right,  there  was  nothing  like  her.  Mrs. 
Trelawney  turned  pale,  and  Mrs.  Dulwich  picked  the 
lovehest  flower  in  her  bouquet  leaf  from  leaf.  It  was  cer- 
tainly all  over  with  them  and  everybody  else,  if  this  most 
fair  and  graceful  young  queen  intended  to  reign.  But 
did  she  ?  that  was  the  point.  Lady  Balfour  received  her 
guests  with  unconcealed  deUght.  The  Duchess  of  Castle- 
mayne honored  those  whom  she  visited.  Lady  Balfour 
knew  of  a  hundred  fair  and  stately  dames  who  had  this 
season  urged  the  duke  to  visit  them,  but  who  had  invari- 
ably received  some  apology,  and  she ;  knowing  the  maids 
and  matrons  of  Great  Britain,  understood  that  in  the 
duke  she  had  even  a  greater  prize  than  in  the  duchess  ot 


THE  DTJKE'S  SECBET.  125 

the  new  beauty.  Lady  Balfour,  although  one  of  the 
queens  of  society,  was  not  above  boasting  her  social 
success. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  the  duke  here  to-night,"  she  said 
to  her  confidential  friend,  the  Countess  of  Boscobel.  "  The 
duchess  tells  me  he  does  not  go  out  half  so  much  as  he 
should  do.  There  is  always  a  shade  of  melancholy 
about  him." 

"  My  dear  Lady  Balfour,  with  all  your  experience,  are 
you  really  so  fooHsh  as  to  believe  that  it  is  your  ball 
which  has  induced  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  to  break 
through  what  I  must  call  his  absurd  notion  of  not  visit- 
ing?" 

"  No — I  thought  so,"  said  the  embarrassed  lady. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind.  Do  j'ou  not  see  he  is  in  love 
with  the  beautiful  ward  of  his  mother's  ?  I  do  not  think 
ha  has  taken  his  eyes  from  her  face  yet.  See  he  haa 
passed  the  beauties  in  deep  converse,  and  has  not  even 
seen  them.  Mrs.  Dulwich  will  never  forgive  him.  Rely 
upon  it  Lady  Valentine  will  be  the  beauty  of  this  season 
and  next." 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Lady  Balfour,  critically  ;  "she 
does  not  look  like  the  girl  who  would  care  even  to  be- 
come a  beauty;  unless  I  am  mistaken,  she  wiU  go  in  for 
love;  those  eloquent  eyes  and  perfect  lips  mean  some- 
thing more  than  love  of  admiration ;  it  strikes  me  that 
one  of  two  things  will  happen  to  her,  either  she  will  love 
happily  and  marry  soon,  or  she  will  love  unhappily  and 
not  marry  at  alL" 

"I  do  not  think  she  will  love  unhappily,  if  the  duke  be 
her  choice,"  said  the  countess. 

Lady  Valentine  was  quite  unconscious  of  the /wror  she 
was  creating.  It  was  the  first  grand  ball  she  had  ever  at- 
tended, and  her  deHght  was  hardly  to  be  imagined. 

She  grew  a  little  pale  and  grave  when  she  found  her- 
self the  very  center  of  observation,  when  the  highest 
personages  in  England  crowded  round  her,  anxious  to 
know  her,  to  compliment  her,  to  look  at  her  peerless  face. 
Something  akin  to  distress  came  over  her.  What  did  it 
mean?  All  these  courtly  gentlemen  with  diamond  stars 
bending  so  low  before  her.  Then  she  quickly  gained  her 
natural  dignity,  and  the  duke,  who  never  left  her  sidc^ 
%dmired  her  errace  and  beautilui  manner, 


126  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  You  will  remember,"  she  said  to  him  with  the  frank, 
free  grace  of  a  child,  "  that  my  first  dance  is  to  be  with 

you." 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  forget  it,"  he  replied. 

'♦HI  am  awkward  at  first  you  wiU  not  mind,  and  if  I 
make  any  mistake  you  will  forgive  me,"  she  whispered, 
as  they  walked  across  the  ball-room. 

"You  could  not  be  awkward,  my  dear  Lady  Valentine, 
if  you  tried,"  he  said;  "  it  is  an  impossibility;  nature  has 
made  you  aU  grace." 

The  Duke  of  Castlemayne,  who  hated  balls,  who  laughed 
at  dancing,  who  had  never  been  seen  to  pay  the  least  at- 
tention to  any  lady,  was  really  dancing — more  than  that- 
waltzing  with  the  youngest  and  loveliest  girl  in  the  room. 

"  My  ball  will  be  remembered  if  it  were  only  for  this," 
said  Lady  Balfour,  with  a  sigh  of  unutterable  content. 

The  duke,  too,  had  cause  to  remember  that  ball.  The 
white  arms,  the  dehcate,  dainty  hands,  that  seemed  to 
touch  him  with  Ungering  affection. 

"  My  first  dance  with  a  gentleman,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
have  enjoyed  it.  It  is  much  nicer  than  dancing  with 
girls." 

"  Most  probably,"  said  the  duke,  dryly. 

"  And  now,"  she  continued,  looking  up  at  him  with  her 
lovely,  appealing  eyes, "  tell  me,  do  I  make  any  great  mis- 
takes. " 

"  Mistakes,  no  ;  your  dancing  is  perfect,"  he  said.  "  I 
was  going  to  say  you  danced  like  an  angel,  but  angels  do 
not  dance.  I  must  say  this,  that  you  waltz  as  beautifully 
and  correctly  as  though  you  had  been  to  balls  every  night 
of  your  life." 

"  You  really  mean  that  ?"  she  questioned,  anxiously. 

"  I  should  not  say  it  unless  I  did,"  replied  the  duke, 
gently. 

"  Then  I  am  quite  happy.     Prince  G has  asked  me 

to  dance  with  him  ;  you  think  I  may  venture  ?" 

"  I  think  the  prince  is  a  very  fortunate  man,"  was  the 
envious  reply. 

The  girl's  lovely  face  was  pale  and  earnest  as  she  looked 
at  him. 

"  I  would  rather  dance  with  you,  San  Sebastian,"  she 
saia,  "  neither  prince,  king,  nor  emperor  can  danc«  lik« 
yoii,  I  am  sure." 


THE  duke's  SECEEgp.  1:27 

He  smiled  at  the  naive,  simple  words. 

"  The  dear  child,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  how  simple  she 
is  to  tell  me  so." 

"  Show  me  your  tablet,"  he  said. 

She  obeyed  him  in  one  moment.  He  looked  down  the 
pretty  piece  of  ivory,  jeweled  and  engraved,  and  there  saw 
the  best  names  in  England. 

*  You  have  three  waltzes  to  spsure,"  he  said;  "may  I 
have  them?" 

"  You  may  have  just  what  you  like,"  she  said,  simply. 
*'  I  would  rather  dance  with  you  than  any  one  else  in  the 
world  through." 

"But  you  can  not  break  your  engagements.  Lady  Val- 
entine," he  said. 

"  Can  I  not  ?  You  know  best.  I  hardly  call  it  an 
engagement,  when  a  prince  with  hardly  a  word,  writes 
down  his  name  as  though  one  ought  to  be  pleased  with 
the  honor." 

"  Most  people  would  be  very  pleased,"  he  said. 

She  only  repeated. 

"  I  would  far  rather  dance  with  you." 

But  in  a  few  minutes  the  prince  came  to  claim  his  own* 

The  success  of  Lady  Valentine  Arden  could  be  told 
best  by  the  faces  of  the  rival  beauties;  meeting  again  in 
the  supper-room  they  exchanged  confidences. 

"I  told  you,"  said  Mrs.  Dulwich,  "I  knew  exactly  how 
it  would  be.  I  foresaw  it  the  moment  she  entered  the 
room." 

"There  is  nothing  in  it.  I  have  not  the  least  fear," 
said  Mrs.  Trelawney:     "I  have  been  dancing  with  Prince 

G ,  and  I  assure  you  that  he  is  far  from  being  charmed 

with  her." 

"  He  danced  with  her  three  times,"  said  Mrs.  Dulwich. 

"Yes;  but  he  told  me  that  during  his  last  waltz  he 
spoke  to  her  three  times  and  she  never  answered  him. 
Then  he  found  that  she  was  watching  the  Duke  of  Castle- 
may  ne  and  that  her  sole  anxiety  was  not  for  him,  but  for 
the  lady  with  whom  the  duke  was  dancing.  Then-  -I  am 
almost  afraid  to  repeat  it,  lest  it  should  not  be  true — but 
she  told  some  one  else  that  she  thought  stout  people 
should  not  dance.  The  loveliest  face  in  the  wide  world 
oould  not  get  over  such  gaucherie  as  that." 


128  THE  duke's  sbgbbt. 

Mrs.  Dulwich  looked  much  relieved. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  fear  if  she  be  really  in  love,"  bIm 
said,  "  and  it  seems  to  me  that  she  is  in  love  with  his 
grace.  I  have  never  known  any  girl  really  in  love  to 
make  any  success," 

"  Nor  I,"  said  Mrs.  Trelawney.  "  I  can  answer  for  the 
prince,  and  he  leads  many  others.  He  will  never  rave 
about  her." 

Yet,  in  spite  of  the  prince's  opinion,  in  spite  of  the  few 
unfortunate  truths  she  had  uttered,  which  would  have 
been  much  better  left  unspoken,  she  won  golden  opinions. 
She  woke  the  next  morning  to  find  herself  famous,  to  find 
all  the  fashionable  journals  in  raptures,  to  find  the  duchess 
with  a  pleasant  smile  on  her  handsome  face  ready  to  con- 
gratulate her. 

The  duke  never  forgot  the  ball.  It  was  almost  ended 
when  he  saw  that  the  beautiful  young  face  looked  tired. 
He  went  to  her  at  once. 

"  Would  you  like  the  carriage,  Lady  Valentine  ?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  very  much,"  she  repHed  ;  and  when  they  were 
driving  home  she  seemed  so  bright,  so  happy,  so  full  ot 
spirits,  he  said  to  her: 

"  I  thought  you  were  tired." 

"  Tired!"  she  repeated.     *'  Oh,  no,  not  in  the  least  1" 

"Then  what  made  you  look  so?"  he  asked. 

"  Did  I  look  tired  ?  I  was  not.  You  were  talking  to  a  lady 
with  dark  hair,  who  wore  an  amber  dress,  who  is  she  ?" 

"  An  amber  dress  ?  You  mean  Lady  Saldore ;  she  is  half 
Spaniard,  as  you  would  know  bv  the  rose  in  her  hair." 

"  Is  she  married  ?"  asked  Lady  Valentine, 

"  Yes,  married,  and  has  several  children,"  he  replied. 

"It  was  a  most  delightful  ball,"  she  said,  with  a  sigh 
of  unutterable  content,  "and  I  was  not  in  the  least  tired; 
but  I  thought  you  had  a  great  deal  to  say  to  that  lady. 
How  bright  the  stars  are  !  I  wonder  how  often  they  have 
looked  down  on  a  girl  with  her  heart  full  of  happiness 
driving  home  from  her  first  ball." 

"  I  hope  your  heart  will  be  full  of  happiness  whenever 
they  look  down  on  you,"  he  said. 

Her  words  rang  strangely  in  his  ears  all  night.  Was 
it  true,  after  all,  tibat  what  we  miss  in  earth  we  shall  find 
in  heaven  ? 


THE  duke's  secbet.  129 

j&jad  where  was  Naomi — his  lost  wife,  and  Mb  son  ? 

CHAPTEE  XVnL 

"you  must  come  with  MJt" 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  was  lookiag  through  the 
list  of  amusements,  and  to  her  delight  found  that  ever- 
yormg  and  ever-beautiful  Patti  was  to  appear  that  even- 
ing in  her  favorite   character  of .      She  looked  up 

hastily. 

"  Lp^dy  Valentine  you  have  often  expressed  a  wish  to 
hear  Patti;  she  is  singing  to-night—will  you  go  to  the 
opera  ?  " 

Lady  Valentine,  without  one  moment's  hesitation  turned 
to  the  dvike  : 

"  Shall  you  go  ?"  she  said,  simply. 

"  I  am  afraid  not;  I  have  an  engagement  this  evening," 
he  repUed. 

Quite  serenely,  calmly,  and  as  though  it  was  a  matter 
of  course,  she  said: 

"  Then  I  shall  wait  until  you  can  go.* 

!iL'he  duchess  looked  up  qiuckly. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,  of  course.  Do  you  think  I  would 
let  you  go  alone,  Lady  Valentine  ?" 

"  But  we  shall  not  enjoy  it  without  the  duke,"  she  re- 
peated; "  if  he  is  engaged  to-night,  let  us  go  to-morrow 
evening." 

"  To-morrow  night  Patti  does  not  sing,"  said  the  duch- 
ess, briefly. 

This  state  of  things  slightly  embarrassed  her.  If  Lady 
Valentine  wanted  the  duke  to  go  anywhere  with  her,  she 
would  find  out  his  unwillingness  to  do  so,  and  his  distastes 
for  the  society  of  ladies  in  general.  Indeed  she  had  mar- 
veled greatly  that  he  had  been  so  amiable,  so  completely 
at  ease,  and  so  much  at  home  with  their  young  guest. 
She  was  amused  now  when  Lady  Valentine  turned  to  him 
with  an  air  of  persuasion  on  her  charming  face. 

"  San  Sebastian,  where  are  you  going  this  evening  ? 
What  is  your  engagement?  How  deep  is  it,  and  is  it 
possible  to  give  up?" 

He  laughed. 

"  I  promised  Lord  Hursthelm  to  see  him  at  the  dub  iO" 
night,"  he  repHed. 


180  *HE  duke's  SEOREir. 

"  For  any  ^special  reason  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  to  play  billiards  with  him.  I  have  always  been 
proud  of  my  own  style,  but  they  say  he  surpasses  me,  and 
I  want  to  know  if  it  is  true." 

"  That  is  not  what  you  would  call  a  very  important  en- 
gagement, is  it  ?  " 

"  No,  not  very,"  he  rephed. 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  you  must  do  ;  write  to  him  a  very 
nice,  kind  note,  and  say  that,  owing  to  unf  orseen  circum- 
etances,  you  can  not  conveniently  keep  your  engagement 
for  to-night,  but  will  defer  it  till  to-morrow." 

"  Do  you  really  wish  me  to  do  that  ?  "  he  asked,  bend- 
ing down  so  as  to  read  clearly  the  expression  of  the  beau- 
tiful face. 

"  Certainly  I  do.  I  long  to  go  to  the  opera,  I  long 
■with  all  my  heart  to  hear  Patti,  but  I  can  not  say  that  I 
should  really  enjoy  either  unless  you  were  there." 

The  duke  looked  at  his  mother.  She  looked  at  him. 
No  child  could  have  spoken  more  frankly,  more  candidly, 
more  simply  ;  yet,  for  a  young  lady  to  speak  in  such  a 
fashion,  to  oHe  who  was  the  most  eligible  man  in  England, 
was  certainly  embarrassing. 

"  I  should  feel  inclined  to  break  any  engagement  in  the 
world  after  that,"  said  the  duke.  "  Most  certainly  I  shall 
go  with  you." 

The  duchess  laughed,  but  there  was  some  little  embar- 
rassment in  her  laugh. 

"  It  is  a  very  good  thing,"  continued  Lady  Valentine, 
naively,  "that  I  did  not  find  you  a  little  boy,  San  Sebas- 
tian, or  you  would  not  have  been  able  to  take  me  out 
anywhere.  I  can  not  think  why  papa  always  spoke  of  you 
as  the  duchess's  boy." 

"  Probably  because  when  I  wrote  to  him  I  used  the  same 
term,"  interrupted  the  duchess;  "and  oeicg  always  ill, 
he  has  in  some  measure  forgot  the  lapse  of  time." 

"  I  am  very  glad  it  was  otherwise,"  said  Lady  Valentine; 
"I  am  glad  also  that  you  are  going  with  us — I  do  not  see 
how  it  is  possible  to  enjoy  anything  alone." 

"But,  my  dear  Valentine,"  interrupted  the  duchess, 
"you  forget  that  I  should  in  any  case  be  there." 

"No,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  naively,  "T  do  not  forget." 

The  duchess  was  very  thoughtful  for  some  little  time 
Itfter  that  conversation.    It  was  evident  to  her  that  Ladj 


THE  DTTKE's  SECBET.  lU 

Valentine  liked  the  diike  very  much — that  she  was,  after 
her  own  particular  fashion,  growing  attached  to  him — 
that  she  did  not  like  to  be  parted  from  him  even  for  a 
few  hours.  It  did  not  occur  to  the  duchess  that  the  bril- 
liant young  beauty  was  in  love  with  her  son  ;  she  thought 
it  the  plainly  expressed,  frank  liking  of  a  girl  for  the 
society  of  the  most  pleasant  and  handsomest  man  in 
England.  If  she  had  known  that  it  was  anything  like 
love  she  would  been  more  alarmed. 

Every  one  knows  what  a  "  Patti "  night  is  like  at  the 
Eoyal  Italian  Opera ;  this  one  was  even  more  brilliant 
than  usual. 

Looking  round  at  the  galaxy  of  beauty,  at  the  blaze  of 
magnificence  and  splendor.  Lady  Valentine  was  startled 
out  of  her  usual  calm.  She  was  quite  unconscious  that  a 
thrill  of  admiration  went  through  the  house  when  she 
took  her  place  ;  she  was  not  thinking  of  herself  at  all ; 
aU  her  thoughts  and  interests  were  given  to  the  duke  by 
her  side  ;  that  among  all  these  beautiful  women  sh« 
should  be  considered  the  most  beautiful  never  occurred 
to  her. 

"  How  beautiful  Patti  is !  "  cried  Lady  Valentine,  when 
the  star  of  the  evening  made  her  appearance  ;  "  what  a 
bright,  sparkling,  animated  face — and  what  a  voice  I " 

It  was  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  she  had  any  chance 
of  hearing  real  music,  and  she  was  simply  entranced. 
The  duke  watched  her.  How  the  color  came  and  went 
on  her  face,  how  her  beautiful  eyes  seemed  to  drink  in 
the  whole  scene.  She  little  knew,  and  would  have  cared 
less  to  know,  that  by  this  time  dozens  of  jeweled  opera- 
glasses  were  leveled  at  her,  and  the  question  that  went 
from  one  to  another  was  : 

"  Who  is  that  beautiful  girl  in  the  Duchess  of  Castle- 
majjie's  box  ?  "  and  the  answer,  "  Lady  Valentine  Arden," 
always  brought  the  same  remark.  "  She  will  be  the  belle 
of  the  season." 

The  duke  was  both  charmed  and  amused  when  she  said 
suddenly  : 

"  Why  are  so  many  people  looking  at  this  box  ?" 

"I  should  imagine  it  is  a  compliment  to  the  duchess's 
diamonds,"  he  replied;  and  she  quite  believed  him. 

' '  Now  I  know  what  sweet  sounds  mean,"  she  said.  "  I 
should  like  to  com©  very  often  to  the  opera,  but  you  must 


132  THE  duke's  secret. 

come  with  me;  although  I  love  music,  I  should  not  like 
this  alone.  The  most  beautiful  thing  in  this  world  is 
doubly  beautiful  when  it  is  shared  by  one  we  like." 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you  there,"  he  repHed. 

The  situation  was  growing  piquant.  It  was  quite  new 
for  him  to  hear  such  frank  outspoken  words  of  liking. 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  duke's   first   PRESENT. 

"  What  book  is  that  I  hear  you  asking  about?"  said  the 
Duke  of  Castlemayne  to  Lady  Valentine. 

"  One  I  have  heard  of,  read  of,  but  have  never  seen,"  she 
replied.  "  The  four  German  stories  written  by  Fougue. 
and  bound  up  together.  One  of  them — the  one  I  wish  so 
much  to  read — is  called  'Undine.'  You  must  know  the 
story,"  she  continued.  "  Undine  is  a  water  spirit  whose 
soul  does  not  come  to  her  until  she  falls  in  love,  and  then 
a  beautiful  poet's  soul  is  born  within  her.  Before  that  tima 
she  had  never  suffered,  neither  had  she  enjoj'ed;  now  the 
suffering  and  happiness  come  together." 

"  What  becomes  of  your  beautiful  Undine  ?  "  he  asked, 
watching  the  play  of  her  lovely  face  with  unconcealed 
deUght.  "  She  marries  her  hero,  and  he  grows  cold  to 
her  after  a  time.  Then  her  relations,  the  water  spirits, 
begin  to  punish  him,  and  to  save  him  from  their  persecu- 
tions she  goes  back  to  him.  This  is  only  the  merest 
sketch  of  the  beautiful  story  that  I  am  giving  to  you.  Af- 
ter a  time,  finding  that  he  loves  her  no  more,  she  goes 
back  to  the  water  spirits,  and  he  marries  again.  Then 
comes  the  most  beautiful  and  pathetic  part  of  the  story. 
By  the  laws  of  spirit-land  she  is  compelled  to  punish  him 
for  that.  There  is  a  beautiful  fountain  in  the  old  court- 
yard, which  Undine  ordered  to  be  closed,  but  which  her 
rival.  Bertha,  has  opened." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  interrupted  the  duke,  "  that  you  have, 
read  this  book." 

"  No;  I  have  only  heard  the  story  told,  and  I  saw  a  pic- 
ture— ah,  me  I  I  shall  never  forgfet  it — a  picture  of  the 
beautiful  fountain  in  the  old  court-yard.  Such  a  picture!  1 
have  stood  breathless  before  it.  The  Gothic  arches  and 
superb  carvings  of  the  court,  the  tall,  white  fountain  in  the 
loiddle,  m^  the  group  of  serrauts  and  workn^eu  watching 


THE  duke's  secret.        '  IBS 

in  wonder.  At  first  when  the  fountain  is  imsealed,  and 
the  stone  raised  from  it,  the  silver  spray  rises  high  in  the 
air;  then  gradually,  to  the  wonder  and  teiTor  of  the 
beholders,  this  spray  assumes  the  figure  of  a  woman,  and 
they  know  her  at  last  for  the  lost  mistress  for  whom  they 
all  mourn,  She  walks  through  the  long  corridors,  weep- 
ing and  wringing  her  hands,  she  goes  to  the  door  of  the 
room  where  her  husband  sleeps  and  calls  for  him;  with 
her  ice-cold  fingers  she  touches  his  heart;  and  the  last 
seen  of  her  she  goes  back  to  the  fountain,  and  all  that  is 
heard  is  the  falling  spray,  which,  as  it  falls,  seems  to  sigh 
like   a  dying  woman !     Is  it  not  a  beautiful  legend?" 

"Most  beautiful,"  says  the  duke.  "  You  shall  have  the 
book  to-morrow.  Your  legend  reminds  me  of  my  favorite 
'Pygmalion  and  Galatea.'  Have  you  seen  it?  But  of 
course  not — you  have  had  no  opportunity  of  going  to 
English  theaters.  The  most  mournful  cry  that  I  have  heard 
in  my  life  was  that  of  Galatea  when  she  returns  to  her 
marble  life.  She  calls  Pygmalion,  but  it  is  in  a  tone  so 
mournful  that  it  made  my  blood  run  cold.  The  voice  dies 
and  dies,  until  the  last  faint  sound  on  the  marble  lips 
seems  to  freeze  on  them." 

"  I  shouW  like  to  see  it," 

"  I  must  ask  my  mother  if  she  can  arrange  it — it  will  be 
played  next  week." 

"  You  will  go  ?"  she  cried,  with  her  usual  impetuosity 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  he  repUed,  laughingly.  The 
words  had  become  quite  a  formula  with  him  now. 

So,  day  by  day,  they  were  di-awn  together  by  a  hundred 
similar  conversations  ;  so  much  was  new  to  Lady  Valentine 
in  this  fresh  life,  there  were  so  many  things  she  could  not 
understand,  there  was  so  much  that  puzzled  her  and  ex- 
cited not  only  her  wonder  but  her  contempt,  and  in  all 
these  social  difficulties  it  was  her  dainty  will  and  pleasure 
to  consult  him  ;  she  seldom  went  to  the  duchess  with  any 
questions.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  when  she  had  been  at 
Rood  House  for  a  short  time,  she  was  quite  as  much  at 
home  as  either  the  duke  or  duchess  ;  she  was  never  afraid 
to  make  her  way  to  the  boudoir  of  the  duchess,  or  to  the 
study  of  the  duke,  and  she  was  equally  welcome  in  hnih 
places.  Had  she  been  a  daughter  of  the  house  she  could 
not  have  been  more  completely  at  home. 

The  duke  was  amused  vf  hen  on  the  day  after  theix 


134  THE  duke's  secbxt. 

conversation  he  took   Fougue's  "Book  of  Stories"  to 
her. 

"  Here  is  '  Undine/  "  he  said,  and  her  lovely  face  flushed 
with  pleasure. 

"  How  shall  I  thank  you  ?  she  said.  "  How  kind  of  you 
to  give  me  this  happiness." 

He  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  find  a  superbly  illusv 
trated  edition,  and  her  genuine  deUght  in  it — just  the 
delight  of  a  child  with  a  new  book — amused  him  very 
much.     She  raised  her  fair  head  from  the  pages,  and  said  : 

"  You  have  given  it  to  me  then  ?    It  is  my  own  ?" 

"Certainly,"  he  said.  "  You  will  honor  me  very  much 
by  accepting  it," 

The  color  rose  to  her  face  when  she  bent  down  and 
kissed  the  pretty  cover.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  hali 
incUned  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  fair-haired  head;  then,  re^ 
membering,  he  drew  back  suddenly.  She  kissed  the 
pretty  binding. 

"I  shall  always  love  this  book,"  she  said,  "because  it  is 
your  first  present  to  me.  I  will  never  part  with  it.  Now, 
come  here  to  my  desk,  and  write  my  name  inside  it.  I 
am  curious  to  see  what  you  will  write.  You  must  say — 
why,  what  is  your  Christian  name  ?  I  have  never  thought 
to  ask  you." 

"  My  name  is  Bertrand,"  he  replied,  "  not  Bertrond — 
my  mother  is  very  particular  about  the  spelling  of  it." 

He  took  the  book,  and  opening  it,  dipped  his  pen  in  the 
ink-stand  to  write  something.  She  leaned  over  his 
shoulder. 

"  I  wonder  what  you  will  write,"  she  cried,  laughingly; 
**  in  every  book  meanifc  as  a  present  that  I  have  seen,  it  is 

written,  '  From ,  to  his  sincere  friend,'  or  something 

of  that  kind;  it  will  be  very  stifif  and  formal  if  you  write. 
From  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  to  the  Lady 
Valentine  Arden.' " 

"I  wiU  do  something  bolder  than  that,"  he  cried;  "J 
wiU  write  simply,  *  From  Bertrand  to  Valentine.'  Will 
that  displease-you?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered,  laughingly;  "I  think  they  are 
very  nice  names,  and  I  like  the  look  of  them  together." 

It  was  some  days  afterward  that  the  duchess  said  : 

"  How  fond  you  are  of  that  green  and  gold  book,  Lady 
Valentine  I" 


THE  duke's  secret.  135 

•*!!:  was  the  duke's  first  present  to  me,"  she  replied. 

"  And  is  that  the  reason  why  you  like  it  so  well  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  I  should  like  anything  that  the  duke  gave 
me,  because  I  Hke  him,"  was  the  candid  reply  ;  and  then 
her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  began  to  look  into  matters.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  matters  were  growing  serious.  Hero 
was  this  beautiful  young  ward  of  hers  openly  professing 
the  most  fervent  liking  for  her  son — surely  she  was  not 
in  love  with  him.  The  duchess  felt  that  would  be  a 
combination  of  circumstances  she  could  not  control.  But 
surely  the  effect  was  too  honestly  expressed  to  be  love. 

"  I  should  have  much  more  to  trouble  about,"  she  said 
to  herself,  reassuringly,  "if  she  shut  herself  up  in  her 
room  to  dream  about  him,  was  shy  when  he  spoke  to  her, 
if  she  avoided  him,  or  blushed  when  near  him.  She  is 
frank,  as  though  she  were  his  own  sister,  seeks  his  opin- 
ions and  society,  embraces  his  ideas  just  as  though  she 
had  lived  with  him  all  her  life.  I  need  not  feel  uneasy 
about  her." 

Yet  she  could  not  feel  quite  happy.  If  such  a  misfor- 
tune should  happen  as  that  this  girl  confided  to  her  care 
should  love  her  son,  and  love  him  hopelessly,  she  would 
never  forgive  herself.  There  was  certainly  a  more  cheer- 
ful way  of  looking  at  it,  and  that  was  the  duke  might 
love  her  in  return ;  but  she  could  hardly  hope  for  that ; 
that  he  who  had  resisted  the  fascinations  and  charms  of 
the  finest  and  most  beautiful  and  popular  women  in  Eng- 
land, for  twelve  long  years,  should  in  a  few  weeks  fall 
hopelessly  captive  before  a  young  girl  seemed  quite  im- 
possible. She  would  have  been  only  too  delighted,  had 
she  thought  the  duke  should  share  the  girl's  sentiments  ; 
but  watching  him  narrowly,  she  could  detect  no  sign  of 
love  in  him.  He  was  charmed,  delighted,  frankly  pleased, 
happy  in  her  society ;  but  "  in  love,"  said  the  stately 
duchess  to  herself,  with  a  shake  of  her  head,  "  in  love  my 
son  will  never  be." 

If  she  had  but  known  of  that  love  of  his  long  years  ago, 
•which  her  imperious  pride  had  trampled  under  foot ;  if 
she  could  have  seen  him  then,  haunted  by  one  fair  face, 
following  Naomi  like  a  shadow,  waiting  whole  hoTirs  for 
one  glimpse  of  her,  loving  her  so  passionately  that  ha 
forgot  everything  on  earth  save  her  ;  if  she  had  known 
tlu9 — how  he  had  clasped  that  beautiful  young  wife  in  his 


186  J^HE  liuiiJfi'S  SEGBET. 

arms  and  had  sworn  that  nothing  should  ever  part  them 
— how  madly,  wildly,  passionately  he  had  loved  her,  she 
would  have  been  astonished. 

And  he  had  lost  this  beautiful,  loving  wife,  simply  be- 
cause he  had  not  liked  to  face  his  mother's  anger  or  out^ 
rage  her  sensitive  pride. 

Where  is  the  duke  ?  Will  he  be  long  ?  Has  he  been 
long  away  ?  Will  he  go  out  with  us  ?  Will  he  stay  at 
home  with  us  ?  This  kind  of  questions  were  on  her  hpa 
a  hundred  times  a  day. 

Once  the  duchess  did  venture  a  very  slight  remoBM 
strance. 

"  My  dear  Lady  Valentine,"  she  said,  **  we  must,  I 
think,  make  our  arrangements  quite  independent  of  the 
duke.  Gentlemen  have  so  many  •ngagements  of  their 
own  that  we  must  depend  more  upon  ourselves. 

"  But,"  she  cried,  eagerly,  "  he  likes  to  go  with  us — ^he 
is  happiest  with  us." 

"  I  know  that — I  am  quite  sure  of  that,  yet  I  think  we 
must  be  more  independent.  He  can  not  go  with  us 
always,  y  o  u  know.  Yesterday  you  lost  your  drive  through 
waiting  for  him." 

"Yes,  I  know;  but,  duchess,  I  would  far  rather  wait 
for  him  and  still  lose  it  than  go  without  him." 

"  My  dear  Lady  Valentine !"  cried  her  Grace  of  Castle- 
mayne. 

"  It  is  quite  true.  When  the  duke  goes  with  us  the 
sun  shines  more  bright  and  the  air  is  sweeter,  everything 
looks  brighter,  the  world  hardly  seems  to  be  the  same 
place.     Do  you  not  find  it  so  ?" 

"  No,"  rephed  the  duchess,  dryly,  "  I  can  not  say  that  I 
do."  But  a  sword  seems  to  pierce  her  heart  as  she  re- 
membered the  time  when  the  presence  of  one  made  earth 
fairer  and  heaven  brighter. 

CHAPTER  XX. 

LADY  VALENTINE  WAKNED. 

So  matters  went  on  for  the  next  few  days,  the  duches8 
growing  more  and  more  uneasy,  yet  hoping  against  hope 
that  she  was  wrong  in  her  fancies,  or  that  her  son  would 
imitate  Lady  Valentine.  In  the  meantime  no  news  came 
for  the  duke.    He  heard  constantly  from  Mr.  Buskyn,  b<| 


THE  DCXE  S  SEOKEl'.  137 

heard  from  the  detective,  but  they  had  nothing  to  tell 
him;  the  hope  of  hearing  anything  about  Naomi  must 
have  forsaken  them,  for  even  he  began  to  look  upon  it  as 
a  chimera. 

But  for  this  tie  that  he  had  so  lightly  contracted  in  his 
youth,  and  even  more  lightly  flung  aside,  but  for  this  he 
might  now  win  and  woo  the  beautiful  young  girl  who 
was  not  in  the  least  degree  shy  of  showing  her  liking 
for  his  society.  It  so  happened  that  the  rival  families 
met  at  a  ball  given  by  the  French  embassador.  Lady 
Everleigh,  with  her  two  daughters  and  son  was  present. 
They  were  in  high  glee,  for  Lady  Everleigh  had  suc- 
ceeded in  one  of  the  great  desires  of  her  life.  Blanche  was 
engaged,  and  considering  that  she  had  no  great  fortune, 
she  had  secured  one  of  the  best  partis  of  the  day,  Lord 
Beaucan,  a  handsome  and  wealthy  young  nobleman,  who 
might,  so  the  world  said,  have  **  done  much  better."  He 
was  seriously  and  gravely  in  love  with  the  fair  Miss 
Blanche ;  and  as  all  true  lovers  should  do,  he  believed 
her  to  be  the  most  beautiful  of  women,  and  he  was  very 
anxious  that  the  marriage  should  take  place  as  soon  as 
possible. 

It  was  very  delightful  for  Lady  Everleigh  to  be  able  to 
tell  all  her  friends  how  very  anxious  she  was,  "  for  really 
dear  Lord  Beaucan  was  so  impatient,  and  wanted  such 
impossible  things  done,  that  she  had  a  really  mad  time  of 
it,"  and  with  the  usual  sinceiity  of  the  world,  her  thou- 
sand and  one  friends  listened  with  kindly,  sympathizing 
smiles,  and  went  away,  saying  how  very  absurd  Lady 
Everleigh  made  herself,  as  though  no  one  had  had  a 
daughter  married  before. 

At  the  embassador's  ball  Lady  Everleigh  was  in  great 
triumph  ;  Blanche,  with  her  young  lord  lover,  attracted 
great  notice  ;  and  Hilda,  as  the  sister  of  the  future  Lady 
Beaucan,  was  very  popular.  So  many  eUgible  men  sur- 
rounded her  that  her  mother  foresaw  a  series  of  triumphs 
for  her,  ending  in  a  suitable  marriage.  She  had  abandoned 
all  idea  of  having  the  duke  for  a  son-in-law  ;  he  had  not 
followed  up  his  short  phase  of  attention  to  her  daughter, 
and  she  heard  that  he  was  to  be  seen  everywhere  with 
Lady  Valentine.  If  her  daughters  married  well,  the  suc- 
cession of  her  son  to  the  dukedom  of  Castlemayne  was 
Act  of  such  vital  importance.    She  felt  just  easy  enough 


138  TflE  duke's  secbbt. 

about  it  to  enable  her  to  be  more  at  ease  than  e^ef  With 
her  stately  rival,  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne. 

The  duke  was  dancing  with  Lady  Valentine  when  the 
two  ladies  met,  and  in  the  great  world,  no  matter  how 
much  people  dislike  or  even  hate  each  other,  they  meet 
with  smiles  and  bows,  and  extended  hands,  each  hating 
the  other  in  her  heart. 

"I  have  to  congratulate  you,"  says  the  duchess,  in  her 
most  stately  and  gracious  fashion  ;  "  Miss  Blanche  Ever- 
leigh  is  most  fortunate." 

There  was  a  veiled  sneer  in  the  words ;  whether  she 
meant  them  or  not,  Lady  Everleigh  was  quick  enough  to 
feel  them. 

"  You  are  very  kind,  duchess.  I  think  Lord  Beaucan  a 
very  fortunate  man,  and  so  the  world  in  general  evidently 
thinks  him.  Pray  may  I  offer  my  congratulations?" 
and  she  looked  with  a  brighter  smUe  at  the  handsome 
duke  and  his  partner. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  would  have  given  her  title, , 
her  fortune,  and  everything  that  she  held  most  dear,  for  ■ 
the  power  to  say,  "  Yes,"  and  so  crushing  forever  the  pre-  • 
sumptuous  hopes  of  the  two  women  she  detested.  But; 
truth  compelled  her  to  speak  plainly. 

"  I  am  not  aware  of  any  cause  for  congratulation,"  shen 
said,  "  unless  you  mean  in  the  beauty  of  my  ward." 

Lady  Everleigh  laughed. 

"  No,  I  do  not  mean  that,"  she  said,  "  but  there  is  » 
rumor  going  about  that  at  last  the  duke  has  f  oimd  hia 
ideal." 

"I  never  listen  to  rumor  "  3aid  her  grace. 

She  had  not  patience  *x»  Day  more.  In  the  brilliant  eyes 
of  her  rival  she  r.ecegnized  a  fresh  security  that  the  duke 
would  never  marry — come  what  might. 

The  ball  was  a  very  successful  one.  The  great  rival 
beauties,  Mrs.  Trelawney  and  Mrs.  Dulwich,  with  a  host 
of  admirers,  were  there.  During  one  of  his  unoccupied 
moments,  the  duke  amused  himself  by  contrasting  the 
rival  beauties  with  Lady  Valentine.  There  could  be  no 
comparison,  he  said  to  himself,  even  so  far  as  natural 
beauty  went.  She  excelled  them,  whUe  her  simple,  grace- 
ful, earnest  manner  surpassed  theirs  as  a  natural  woman 
always  surpasses  an  artificial  one. 

If  Lady  Valentine  could  have  condescended  to  try  to 


THE  duke's  SICBIT  139 

eharm,  to  try  to  fascinate,  if  she  had  taken  the  least  pride 
in  a  legion  of  admirers,  she  would  have  far  surpassed  all 
the  beautiea  As  it  was,  she  cared  but  to  please  one — and 
in  that  she  thoroughly  succeeded. 

His  heart  warmed  to  her  as  he  looked  at  her.  But  for 
this  tie  which  bound  him,  as  it  were,  to  a  shadow,  but  for 
this  the  sweet  eyes  should  not  brighten,  nor  the  sweet  face 
flush  in  vain  for  him. 

It  was  late  in  the  evening  when  the  duchess  went  to 
Jjady  Valentine,  and  under  the  pretense  of  wishing  to  in- 
troduce her  to  some  one,  said: 

"  Give  me  five  minutes,  Lady  Valentine,  that  is,  if  your 
partner  will  allow  it" 

"  My  partner  must  do  as  I  please,"  was  the  reply,  "  and 
I  please  to  be  with  you." 

They  walked  through  the  baU-room  to  one  of  the  pretty 
drawing-rooms  set  apart  for  tete-a-tetes  of  different  kinds. 

"I  want  to  say  something  to  you.  Lady  Valentine.  Of 
course  I  should  never  dream  of  interfering  with  you  in  the 
matter  of  making  friends;  you  have  so  much  good  sense 
titat  I  may  safely  leave  it  with  you;  but  I  do  not  wish  you 
to  associate  with  Lady  Everleigh  or  any  of  her  family." 

ijady  Valentine  raised  her  beautiful  eyes  in  wonder. 
It  was  the  first  time  the  duchess  had  adopted  that  tone 
with  her. 

"  Slie  seemed  a  very  nice,  bright  woman,"  she  replied, 
half  hesitating  as  to  whether  she  should  rebel  against  both 
the  wordd  and  the  tone  of  the  voice. 

"  I  say  nothing  against  her,"  said  the  duchess,  coolly; 
"  I  do  not  *;ven  dictate ;  I  say  simply  that  I  have  cause  to 
dislike  her,  aijd  I  should  be  best  pleased  if  you  avoided 
her.  Neither  my  son  or  myself  see  her  when  we  can 
•void  it" 

The  whole  expression  of  the  girls  face  changed  when  the 
duchess  uttered  that  magical  name. 

"Does  not  he  lik«9  her?"  she  cried. 

There  was  but  one  "  He "  in  the  world  for  Lady  Val- 
entine. 

"My  son  like  her,"  said  the  duchess.  "  Oh,  no;  and  I 
will  teU  you  why — it  will  be  best  for  you  to  know  all  about 
it  If  my  son  dies  unmarried,  Lady  Everleigli's  son 
Arthur,  the  fair  young  man  over  there;  talking  tp  the  Qior 


140  THB  DUKB^S  SECBBT. 

bassador,  will  succeed  him —  will  be  Duke  of  Castlemayne 
in  his  place." 

Lady  Valentine  was  quite  silent  for  some  minutes,  and 
the  duchess  looked  in  wonder  at  the  many  expressions 
which  came  over  her  face — wonder,  bewilderment — while 
the  beautiful  lips  parted  and  the  violet  eyes  filled  with  sur- 
prise. 

"  But  your  son,  the  duke,  will  marry,"  she  said.  "  Why 
are  you  afraid  of  that  ?" 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Valentine,"  said  her  grace,  "if  I  could 
but  hope  that  I  should  be  quite  happy." 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  with  some  surprise.  "Why 
should  you  think  that  your  son  should  not  marry;  there  is 
nothing  to  prevent  him,  is  there  ?" 

"Nothing  but  his  own  obstinacy,"  said  the  duchess. 
"  That  has  been  my  trouble  for  many  years  ;  he  would 
never  hear  of  marrying.  I  have  talked  about  it  time  after 
time;  it  ends  always  in  the  same  way — he  listens,  seems 
to  be  impressed,  and  promises  that  he  will  see  his  lawyer. 
Now  what  can  seeing  his  lawyer  do  ;  it  would  be  much 
more  to  the  purpose  if  he  would  see  some  nice  girl  and 
love  her." 

Lady  Valentine  laughed. 

"  You  are  quite  right.  What  an  idea  to  see  his  lawyer, 
the  last  person  on  earth  I  can  imagine  any  one  wanting  to 
see.  Yet,  duchess,  I  can  not  see  why  this  should  make  you 
dislike  Lady  Everleigh." 

"  It  is  not  from  the  fact  that  I  dislike,  but  because  she 
triumphs  over  me,"  said  the  duchess.  She  can  not  wait 
imtil  the  time  comes  when  she  may  reasonably  triumph  ; 
she  takes  all  kinds  of  airs  and  graces  on  herself,  she  talks 
quite  freely  of  the  time  when  the  Castlemayne  title  and 
estate  will  be  her  son's." 

"  Then  she  is  a  very  wicked  woman,"  cried  Lady  Valen- 
tine. "  Why,  what  nonsense  it  is  ;  that  son  of  hers  must 
be  the  same  age  as  the  duke,  is  he  not  ?" 

"  There  is  but  six  years  difference  between  them,"  re- 
plied her  grace. 

"  What  nonsense  ;  why,  the  duke  may  'outlive  him  by 
fifty  years — I  hope  he  will." 

"  Still,  if  he  will  not  marry,  his  living  so  long  will  avail 
but  little,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a  sigh.  "  If  Arthur  Ever- 
leigh does  »ot  succeed  him.  some  one  else  will,  although  J 


THE  duke's  secret.  l4i 

grant  that  no  other  man  could  be  so  distasteful  to  me  as 
this  woman's  son." 

"  But,  duchess,  your  son  will  marry.    Why  not  7" 

"  Ah,  me,  that  is  just  the  question — why  not  ?  but  he 
will  not.  For  twelve  years — in  fact  ever  since  he  reached 
his  twenty-first  year — I  am  urging  him  to  think  of  it.  I 
am  sure,"  continued  her  grace,  "  that  I  have  introduced 
some  of  the  lovehest  women  in  England  to  him  ;  but  it  is 
all  in  vain." 

The  beautiful  young  face  grew  somewhat  pale  and 
scared. 

"  But  why  ? "  she  persisted.  "  Does  he  not  like 
ladies  ?  " 

"  One  would  think  not,"  said  his  mother.  "  I  may  say 
that  he  has  spent  twelve  years  in  avoiding  them." 

"  He  has  been  very  kind  to  me,"  said  the  girl,  thought- 
fuUy. 

"  Yes  ;  he  has  spent  more  time  with  you  than  aU  the 
other  ladies  he  kiiows  put  together,"  and  the  duchess 
looked  wistfully  ia  the  young  face. 

"  It  seems  very  strange,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  after  a 
time  ;  "  he  has  everything  that  life  can  give  him.  I  am 
sure  it  must  be  easy  for  him  to  win  love.  Why  does  he 
not  marry  ?  " 

"  Alas  !  "  cried  the  duchess,  "  for  twelve  long  years, 
morning,  noon  and  night,  I  have  asked  myself  the  ques- 
tion— '  ^\Tiy  does  he  not  marry  ?  "  But  you  will  under- 
stand how  very  distasteful  the  sight  of  Lady  Everleigh 
must  be." 

"  I  shall  talk  to  her  no  more,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  and 
the  duchess  knew  that  in  the  young  girl  she  had  found  a 
firm  and  true  ally. 


CHAPTEB  "g'^T. 
LOVE  Ain>  Musia 
Lady  Valektinx  could  not  forget  that  conversation-    It 

seemed  to  her  that  the  proud,  haughty  mother  had  bared 
the  secret  wound  of  her  heart  to  her.  Why  should  he 
not  marry — why  should  he  not  marry?  she  would  ask  her- 
self. In  the  whole  wide  world  there  was  no  one  so  hand- 
some, so  noble.    He  was  like  a  king,  his  every  action  was 


1^  tBSt  DVtE^B  SECBtr. 

noble  and  grand,  generous  and  princely.  Why  should  bt 
not  love  and  marry  as  other  men  did  ? 

No  wonder  that  one  so  young,  so  pure  in  heart  and 
mind,  so  utterly  unconventional,  so  inexperienced  and 
ignorant  of  all  life — no  wonder  that  she  should,  without 
in  the  least  knowing  it,  give  her  heart  and  her  love  unre- 
servedly to  one  like  the  duke.  No  wonder  that  the  heart 
of  the  beautiful  child  went  out  to  him,  to  be  her  own  no 
more.  It  was  quite  unconsciously  done  ;  she  had  not  the 
faintest  idea  of  it ;  if  any  one  had  told  her  abruptly,  she 
would  either  have  laughed  or  have  grown  angry  ;  yet 
with  all  the  truth,  earnestness,  and  ardor  of  her  soul,  she 
loved  him. 

She  did  not  know  it  was  love  which  made  her  long  for 
his  presence  as  the  flowers  longed  for  the  sun;  that  made 
everything  in  his  absence  seem  dark  and  dreary;  that 
made  the  sound  of  his  voice  sweeter  than  any  music  to 
her  ears;  that  made  her  tremble  even  if  he  touched  her 
dress  in  passing  by;  that  made  her  linger  in  the  cerridor 
and  galleries  for  one  look  at  him,  only  one  glimpse  as  he 
passed  by;  that  made  anything  laelonging  to  him  most 
dear  to  her;  that  caused  her  thoughts  to  concentrate 
themselves  upon  him  so  that  the  world  outside  him  was 
nothing.  She  never  dreamed  that  it  was  love.  She  was 
very  fond  of  him,  of  the  duchess,  of  her  father,  but  that 
she  was  fonder  of  him  in  a  different  way,  and  far  more 
than  of  any  one  else  in  the  world,  she  never  thought. 

She  never  dared  to  go  anywhere  without  him;  but 
that  she  explained  to  herself  was  because  he  was  so  kind, 
80  amusing;  he  knew  everything  and  everybody.  She 
was  in  perfect  ignorance  of  her  own  state  of  mind,  and 
she  would  never  have  found  it  out  but  for  the  conver- 
sation of  the  duchess. 

"Why  should  he  not  marry?"  From  that  momentous 
question  her  thoughts  went  to  another.  "  Suppose  he  did 
marry  and  brought  his  wife  home  to  Rood  House,  as  he 
must  do,  how  would  she  like  that?"  Her  face  flushed 
hotly.  "I  hope  he  will  not  marry,"  she  cried,  impetu- 
ously. "  I  am  sure  I  should  not  like  to  see  a  young  duch- 
ess here."  As  yet  her  thoughts  did  not  reach  so  far  as 
that  he  should  marry  her.  She  was  anxious  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  been  at  Rood  House.  She  could  un- 
derstand and  sympathize  with  the  duchess's  great  wisb 


VHB  duke's  secret.  143 

that  her  son  should  marry.  She  could  understand  how 
distasteful  it  was  to  her  to  hear  the  comments  of  Lady 
Everleigh,  but  she  did  not  like  to  think  of  the  duke  as  a 
married  man.  He  could  not  go  out  with  her  then,  he 
would  have  to  take  his  wife,  and  she  would  be  left  with 
the  duchess.  Was  it  the  prospect  of  being  left  with  the 
duchess  that  made  her  beautiful  lips  quiver  and  her  eyea 
fill  with  tears  ?  She  was  standing  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  from  where  she  could  see  the  park.  Suddenly  a 
kindly  hand  was  laid  on  her  shoulder. 

"Lady  Valentine,"  said  the  duke,  "that  is  the  first  sad 
look  I  have  seen  on  your  face  since  you  came  to  us;  now 
you  must  tell  me  what  has  brought  it  there." 

He  had  a  charm  of  manner  that  was  quite  irresistable*, 
if  fie  said  must,  the  person  spoken  to  seemed  to  have  no 
chance  save  to  do  just  what  be  said — a  charm  that  fascin- 
ated every  one — the  true,  kindly  eyes  looked  l^rough  in- 
to the  heart  and  soul,  the  beautiful  mouth  had  a  genial, 
kindly  smile. 

"  You  must  tell  me  what  has  brought  it  there,  so  that  I 
may  send  it  away," 

She  was  truth  itself,  but  the  maidenly  instincts  in  her 
■could  not  let  her  say,  "  I  was  wondering  what  I  should  do 
if  you  were  to  marry."  She  turned  from  him  abruptly, 
although  the  caressing  touch  of  his  hand  filled  her  witii 
happiness. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,"  she  replied;  "  if  I  could,  I  should 
ai  once.     Come  to  the  piano,  and  let  us  have  some  music." 

"Wondering  at  her  manner,  for  she  had  always  seemed 
8o  pleased  to  talk  to  him,  he  followed  her.  She  took  up 
some  new^ songs  at  random. 

"  Sing  this  to  me,"  she  said,  quickly. 

She  might  have  paused,  perhaps,  had  she  read  the 
beautiful  words  first — words  written  by  a  true  singer — t 
pretty,  pathetic  baUad,  called  "  Recompense." 

**  One  flower  alone,  of  &11  the  flowers, 

Sweet  with  the  summer  sunlit  showers ; 

One  fair  queen-blossom  on  the  tree 

Was  more  than  all  the  rest  to  me. 

\ 
*•  And  one  proud  face  was  passing  fair. 

One  face  alone  beyond  compare. 

It  was,  alas  !  as  lovers  know 

Ifj  heart  of  hearts  that  told  me  bo. 


i 


144  THE  duke's  secket. 

*'  The  wind  crept  down  the  garden  walk 
And  stole  my  blossom  from  the  stalk. 
My  passion  met  with  her  disdain, 
I  loyed  her,  and  I  loved  in  vain. 

"  And  so  I  gave — the  world  was  wide— 
Scorn  for  her  scorn,  and  pride  for  pride. 
And  still,  alas !  I  found  that  she 
Was  more  than  all  the  world  to  me." 

**  Do  you  like  that  ?  "  he  asked,  as  he  watched  the  white 
lingers  moving  over  the  keys. 

She  did  not  turn  to  him  as  usual  with  gay,  bright  com- 
ments on  his  singing.  Her  eyes  were  bent  upon  the 
keys. 

"Yes,  I  like  it;  it  is  both  sweet  and  sad.  I  suppose 
that  in  this  life  every  one  mourns  over  a  stolen  rose. 
Sing  another." 

He  took  up  the  music. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "you  will  Hke  this  better.  It  ia 
«alled 'Final  Faith.'" 

**  *0h,  sweet  and  bitter,  sad  and  tru^ 
I  love  you  still  and  only  you. 
Betrayed,  forsaken,  it  is  strange 
Love  is  love  and  can  not  ohanga. 

**  *  Oh,  fond  and  fickle,  false  and  fair. 
Do  you  recall  the  days  that  were  ? 
And  think  of  these  without  a  thrill 
Of  pain,  for  one  who  loves  you  still  f 

•*  *0h,  last  and  first,  the  song  of  love 
Are  full  of  faith  on  lips  above. 
And  having  loved  you  is  it  strange 
I  love  you  still  and  cannot  change  ?  "* 

He  asked  no  question  when  he  had  finished,  but  looked 
into  the  beautiful  drooping  face.  The  silence  confused 
her;  she  would  have  said  anything  rather  than  it  should 
have  lasted. 

"  I  wonder  why  so  many  songs  are  written  about  love  ?  " 
she  said  ;  and  then  she  bethought  herself  that  this  was 
the  last  topic  she  ought  to  have  chosen.  He  smiled  at  the 
naive  remark. 

"Love,  poetry,  and  music  are  closely  allied,"  he  re- 
plied ;  "  still  I  do  not  know  why  so  many  songs  are 


THE  DUKE  D  SEOBBT.  145 

about  love.  It  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  and  musi- 
cal topic  in  itself." 

"  I  like  sea-songs,  like  Dibdin's,  or  grand  old  martial 
ballads  best,"  she  said,  dreamingly. 

"  Do  you  ?  I  like  the  fine  old  baUads  too.  Shall  I  sing 
one  for  you  ?  I  perceive  that  to-day  you  are  far  more 
inclined  to  listen  than  to  sing." 

"  It  is  quite  true,  but  how  do  you  know  it  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  By  the  expression  of  your  face.  Lady  Valentine,"  he 
answered. 

'*  I  did  not  know  that  you  could  read  my  face  so  well," 
she  said. 

And  then  he  sang  for  her  one  of  those  grand  old  border 
ballads  full  of  fire  and  pathos.  She  listened  until  the  tears 
filled  her  eyes,  then  she  laughed  at  her  own  dilemma.  She 
was  playing  the  accompaniment.  What  should  she  do  if 
tears  fell  with  a  great  splash  on  the  ivory  keys?  Why 
were  tears  there  at  all  ? 

"That  is  better  than  singing  all  about  love,"  she  said. 
"  I  like  a  little  of  love  and  plenty  of  war.  That  is  the  best 
mixture  for  a  song.  Martial  music  makes  my  heart  beat" 

The  duke  looked  at  her  with  a  kindly  smile. 

"  Your  heart  will  beat  with  something  else  besides  war 
▼ery  soon,"  he  said. 

But  she  turned  from  him,  and  would  hear  no  more. 

CHAPTER  XXn. 

THB    DUOHESS    PBA7S. 

Nature  had  been  very  good  to  Lady  Valentine;  besides 
giving  her  a  beautiful  face  and  figure,  she  had  given  her 
one  of  the  sweetest  voices  ever  heard.  The  duke,  who  was 
passionately  fond  of  music,  was  delighted  with  it;  his  favo- 
rite method  of  passing  time  was  to  persuade  Lady  Valen- 
tine to  play  and  sing  while  he  listened.  She  had  a  grand 
voice;  her  whole  soul  and  being  seemed  possessed  of  great 
dramatic  force  and  power.  The  duchess,  who  was  a  pretty 
good  judge  of  human  nature,  often  said  to  herself  that  ii 
Lady  Valentine  Arden  had  not  been  a  peer's  daughter,  she 
would  have  been  the  finest  lyric  singer  of  the  day  ;  her 
whole  soul  went  into  her  songs,  and  some  of  them  were 
very  sweet. 


146  THE  duke's  SECBET. 

The  young  duke  liked  to  lie  back  with  closed  eyes,  and 
listen  to  this  sweet  flood  of  melody  as  it  floated  round 
him. 

"  Have  I  sung  you  to  sleep  ?"  she  asked  one  day,  when 
she  had  finished  the  most  beautiful  of  her  songs,  "  "Will 
he  Come?" 

But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  to  look  at  her  she  saw 
that  they  were  full  of  tears.  What  vision  had  come  before 
him  as  the  sweet,  sad  words  fell  on  his  ear,  of  the  fair 
young  face,  so  bright  with  love  and  happiness — of  that 
same  face  the  day  after,  when  she  had  turned  to  him  with 
that  agonized  cry:  "Lord  St.  Albans,  I  appeal  to  you." 
Ah,  if  he  had  but  answered  her — if  he  had  but  stretched 
out  his  hands  to  hold  the  hands  he  should  touch  no  more. 
But  he  had  not  spoken,  and  she  was  lost  to  him  for  ever- 
more. 

If  he  could  see  her  for  five  minutes — if  he  might  only 
tell  her  that  he  had  not  meant  it,  that  it  was  a  mistake; 
he  had  intended  to  take  care  of  her.  But  never  more  in 
this  world  should  he  be  able  to  explain  to  her.  No 
wonder  that  his  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  that  when 
Lady  Valentine  saw  his  emotion  she  thought  it  was  her 
singing  which  had  brought  it  there. 

She  laid  her  kindly  hand  in  his, 

"  You  have  tears  in  your  eyes,  duke,"  she  said,  "  and  I 
do  not  hke  to  see  them  there.     What  brings  them  there  ?" 

She  thought  to  herself  as  she  looked  at  him  how  hand- 
some he  was,  and  she  wondered  why  he  was  so  sad  ;  what 
was  it  that  shadowed  the  laughing  eyes  and  had  deepened 
the  lines  of  the  beautiful  mouth  ?  He  was  unlike  other 
men  ;  he  seemed  to  have  a  secret  in  his  life  ;  his  thoughts 
were  always  absorbed  in  something.  Had  he  a  secret  ? 
He  was  young,  handsome,  wealthy  ;  she  could  not  think 
of  a  flaw  in  the  gem  of  his  life  ;  but  as  she  had  seen  the 
tears  in  his  eyes,  some  cause  or  other  must  have  brought 
them  there. 

She  was  so  artless,  so  frank,  so  innocent ;  know  it  or 
not,  she  loved  the  young  duke  with  all  her  heart  She 
laid  her  hand  on  his,  and  said  : 

"  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  what  brought  those  tears  to 
your  eyes." 

"Tell  you?"  he  repeated,  looking  at  her  in  wonder— 
**  Jell  you,  Valentine?" 


tn  DTTKE*S  SECBST.  147 

"  Yes — no — ^Valentine.  I  want  to  know  what  is  wrong 
with  you,  and  what  it  is  you  think  about  when  you  look 
so  sad.  Who  is  in  your  mind  ?  Ah,  I  wish  you  would 
trust  me !  Tell  me  all  about  yourself ;  then  I  should 
know  ;  I  should  understand." 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder  ;  until  now  be  had  thought 
of  her  as  a  child,  placed  under  her  mother's  care  ;  now  it 
dawned  across  him  that  she  was  a  beautiful,  charming  girl. 
How  her  eyes  brightened  and  her  fair  face  flushed  as  she 
looked  at  him ! 

He  looked  confused,  agitated,  and  answered  quickly  : 

"  I  would  trust  you  with  anything.  You  are  like  a 
sister  to  me." 

"A  sister,"  she  repeated,  in  a  tone  of  voice  that  showed 
very  plainly  she  did  not  like  the  word.  "  A  sister,  duke  ? 
And  if  you  had  had  one,  should  you  have  loved  her 
very  much?" 

"Very  much,  indeed,  Valentine,"  he  replied. 

"  As  much  as  you  love  me  ?"  she  asked,  with  that  pretty 
charming  manner  no  one  covdd  resist.  "  Better  than  me, 
perhaps,"  she  added. 

He  was  just  a  httle  puzzled  to  answer  the  question. 

"  I  do  not  think,"  he  said,  "  that  I  could  love  any  sister 
more  than  you,"  yet  he  was  half  frightened  as  he  said  it. 

The  sweet  bright  face  laughed  into  his. 

"I  am  so  glad,"  she  said;  "for  I  have  seen  no  one  I  like 
as  well  as  you." 

She  sat  down  by  his  chair,  and  began  to  talk  to  him. 
In  another  it  would  have  looked  like  coquetry  or  like 
forwardness;  in  her  it  looked  just  as  it  was — simple, 
girlish,  natural  affection ;  from  that  time  she  would 
always  sing  to  him  in  the  gloaming;  she  chose  the  sweetest 
and  saddest  of  songs,  and  when  they  were  ended  she 
would  go  and  sit  by  him  with  all  the  artless  affection  and 
vivacity  of  a  child.  It  happened  more  than  once  that  the 
duchess,  seeing  them,  had  smiled  significantly,  and  the 
duke  had  seen  the  smile. 

It  roused  him  ;  a  smile  like  that  on  his  mother's  face 
meant  something  now.  If  she  thought  there  was  any 
nonsense  or  flirtation  between  him  and  this  child  she  was 
tnistaken. 

So,  for  a  day  or  two,  he  stood  on  more  ceremony  with 
her,  and  when  the  fresh,  sweet  voice  asked ;  "  Duke,  ar« 


148  THE  duke's  secrst. 

you  coining?"  "Are  you  going  with  me?"  "Will 
you  read  to  me  ?  "  he  had  always  some  excuse,  some  en- 
gagement, some  appointment,  until  the  fair  face  gr©^ 
sad.     She  went  to  him  one  day,  and  said  : 

"  Have  I  vexed  or  displeased  you  ?  You  are  so  changed 
in  your  manner  to  me. " 

"  You  have  done  neither,"  he  replied. 

"You  are  quite  sure — honor  bright,"  as  the  children 
were  wont  to  say. 

''  Honor  bright,"  he  answered,  with  a  laugh.  "  Why 
should  I  be  vexed  or  angry  with  you,  who  are  always 
kind  and  sweet  to  me  ?  " 

"  That  is  just  what  I  could  not  understand,"  she  replied. 
"  Then,  if  neither  vexed  nor  angry,  why  should  you  be  so 
cold  and  distant  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  that  I  have  been  either,"  he  said. 

"  You  have  been  both,  duke  ;  and  when  you  are  in 
those  moods  I  feel  as  the  world  must  feel  when  the  sun- 
light has  gone  from  it.  If  you  are  neither  vexed,  angry, 
cold  nor  distant,  why  have  you  not  been  out  with  me  as 
usual?" 

"I  have  been  busy,"  he  said. 

"  Then,  to  prove  that  it  is  all  right,  will  you  take  us  to 
Lady  Prescott's  to-night — she  has  a  large  daucing-party  ? 
We  went  to  Craig  House  last  evening,  but  without  you 
it  was  too  duU." 

"  Without  me.  Why,  Lady  Valentine,  what  difference 
in  the  world  should  I  make  ?" 

"  Just  all  the  difference  in  the  world  to  me,"  she  said, 
simply.  "There  are  only  two  places  to  me  in  this  world 
— where  you  are  and  where  you  are  not."  She  spoke  so 
calmly  and  so  simply  that  he  could  not  misunderstand 
her  words.  "  You  know,"  she  continues,  with  the  same 
kind,  frank,  girlish  mauner,  "  how  much  I  enjoy  waltz- 
ing ;  but  I  almost  made  up  my  mind  yesterday  that  I 
would  never  waltz  again  except  with  you.  I  did  not  cara 
for  it ;  but  if  you  will  come  to  the  ball  to-night,  I  shall 
enjoy  every  waltz." 

"  But,  my  dear  Valentine,  I  could  not  dance  every 
waltz  with  you,"  he  said,  wonderingly, 

"  Well,  perhaps  not  every  one,"  she  said  ;  "  but  you  will 
go  and — I  am  so  pleased  that  there  is  not  any  foundation 
for  all  that  I  feared  over  you."  ^ 


^  THE  duke's  secbkt.  149 

"  If  I  had  known  that  you  had  such  fears,  I  -would  have 
discussed  them  with  you  before,"  he  said. 

He  thought  a  great  deal  about  that  conversation  ;  how 
frank  and  fair  she  was  !  He  thought  to  himself  if  he  had 
known  no  other  love,  if  he  had  never  seen  Naonii,  he 
could  have  taken  this  young  girl  to  his  heart  and  never 
let  her  go  ;  she  was  herself  so  loving,  it  was  impossible 
not  to  love.  j 

They  went  to  the  ball  together,  and  it  was  a  fact  tha 
she  did  not  seem  to  hear  or  see  any  one  but  the  young 
duke.  The  duchess  saw  it  plain  enough;  there  -vsas  no 
mistake  about  it;  the  girl  loved  her  son.  How  her  eyes 
followed  him — how  her  face  brightened  at  his  approach 
— how  evident  it  was  to  every  one  near  that  her  girl- 
ish heart  had  gone  out  to  Lim.  The  duchess  did  not 
know  whether  to  feel  pleased  or  displeased.  Lady  Val- 
entine loved  her  son,  of  that  she  did  not  feel  the  least 
doubt  in  the  world;  but  what  of  the  d\ike?  She  watched 
him  quietly,  and  without  saying  one  word.  It  was  true 
that  she  had  never  seen  him  so  devoted  to  any  one  before. 
His  handsome  head  was  bent  over  the  fair  face;  he  talked, 
laughed,  and  seemed  lighter  of  heart  than  he  had  done 
lor  many  years.  A  sigh  that  was  almost  a  prayer  rose  to 
his  mother's  hps.  If  Heaven  would  but  grant  her  this 
favor — if  her  son  would  but  fall  in  love  with  this  girl — 
who,  above  all  other  girls,  seemed  so  well  suited  to  him 
— she  felt  that  then  indeed  her  Hfe  would  be  crowned 
with  success. 

She  watched  keenly  and  closely,  but  she  could  not  de- 
cide. That  Lady  Valentine  had  a  great  attraction  for  him 
no  one  covdd  deny,  but  whether  it  was  love  or  not  she 
could  not  determine.  She  saw  that  when  the  ball  was 
over,  the  girl's  beautiful  face  was  fresh  as  a  flower,  her 
eyes  full  of  light,  and  her  lips  all  smiles. 

"  I  have  been  so  happy,"  she  said,  as  the  duke  drew  the 
white  wrapper  round  her  shoulders.  "  This  has  been  the 
very  best  ball  of  the  season— the  very  best  I  thought 
that  it  was  the  dullest  ever  given." 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  thought  to  herself  that  if 
the  duke  did  not  see  through  and  understand  this  he 
would  never  understand  anything.  It  was  so  plain,  so 
palpable  to  her.  The  girl  evidently  loved  him  nth  all 
{ler  he^rt  »iid  had  m  ide»  ol  concealing  it,  perhaps  WM 


160  THE  bitke's  secret.  *^ 

quite  unconscious  of  it.  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had 
never  noticed,  that  he  had  not  seen  the  warmth  of  manner, 
frank,  kindly  affection,  the  tenderness  that  shone  in  her 
face  and  eyes  ?  The  duchess  was  a  worldly  woman.  She 
had  thought  much  of  another  life,  but  if  ever  she  prayed 
fervently  it  was  on  that  night  as  she  drove  home  with  her 
son  and  the  beautiful  young  girl  whom  she  longed  to 
welcome  as  her  daughter.  She  prayed  that  Heaven 
would  incline  the  heart  of  her  son  to  fulfill  her  wishes. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 

A   FROZEN    HEART. 

NoTHiNO  happened  to  show  the  duchess  that  Tier  wishes 
were  to  meet  with  any  fulfillment.  The  duke  continued 
most  kind  and  attentive  to  Lady  Valentine;  she  to  evince 
the  same  frank,  open  affection  for  him;  but  her  grace  did 
not  hear  that  which  she  longed  to  hear.  She  dreamed 
every  day  of  the  time  when  h*  should  come  suddenly  be- 
fore her  and  say:  "Mother,  this  is  my  wife;  I  have 
chosen;  wish  us  happiness."  But  that  never  came.  The 
far-off  look  deepened;  the  eyes  were  always  seeking  that 
which  he  never  found.  Still,  she  would  never  have  taken 
any  step  in  the  matter  but  for  this  fact,  that  she  saw  one 
slight  change  in  the  girl  herself;  she  found  her  once  or 
twice  alone,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands;  she  grew  more 
thoughtful,  something  was  gone  of  the  glad  ring  of  her 
voice;  when  she  sung  the  tears  would  fill  her  eyes  and 
the  lips  tremble  as  the  sweet  words  came  over  them. 

She  debated  long  within  herself  what  she  should  do. 
The  girl  was  so  young,  and  had  been  entrusted  to  her; 
she  could  not  see  her  made  unhappy,  yet  she  did  not  like 
to  interfere.  One  word  spoke  to  either  ,  might  be  fatal; 
BO  she  allowed  some  days  to  pass  without  interference; 
then  conscience  spoke — the  girl's  happiness  must  not  be 
trifled  with.  If  the  duke  was  not  likely  to  fall  in  love 
with  her,  either  he  must  go  away  for  a  time,  or  the  duch- 
ess herself  must  go  and  take  Lady  Valentine.  It  was  but 
a  fair  thing  to  do. 

Matters  came  to  a  crisis  one  lovely  morning  when  the 
three  met  at  breakfast,  and  the  lovely  laughing  sunshine 
was  so  temptiag  that  Lady  Valentine  begged  they  mighti 
|[^  ou^  9^  soon  as  possible. 


Knt  dtjke's  sicot.  151 

••  The  park  will  be  beautiful  this  morning,"  she  said. 
**  You  will  come  with  us,  duke,  will  you  not  ?" 

Some  glimmering  idea  that  it  would  not  be  wise  to  be 
seen  always  with  her  occurred  to  him,  as  it  had  often  done 
before. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  made  an  engage- 
ment for  this  morning." 

"Do  try,"  she  said;  her  face  and  manner  were  so  earnest 
that  he  flushed  crimson,  and  the  duchess  bent  her  head 
over  her  plate  to  conceal  a  smile. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  break  my  promise,"  he  replied. 
*'  I  said  that  I  would  drive  over  with  Lord  Clipton  to 
Richmond-  He  is  giving  a  dinner  at  the  Star  and 
Garter." 

•*  Then  you  would  be  away — not  only  all  day,  but  all 
the  evening,"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  We  should  not  get  back  much  before  midnight," 
he  replied. 

It  was  impossible  to  help  seeing  that  every  gleam  of 
brightness  fell  from  the  girl's  face. 

"  A  day  and  evening!"  she  said.  "I  do  not  like  Bich- 
mond." 

"  Have  you  been  there  ?"  asked  the  duke. 

*'  No ;  but  I  am  sure  all  the  same  I  do  not  like  it." 

"  I  should  be  pleased  to  take  you  there  some  day.  We 
will  dine  at  the  hotel  and  drive  home  by  moonlight." 

"  That  will  be  pleasant,"  she  said.  "  I  shall  enjoy  it; 
but  I  wish — ah,  how  I  wish  you  were  not  going  to-day." 

There  was  silence  for  afew  minutes  then  the  duchess  said: 

"  Now,  my  dear,  if  you  want  a  long  drive,  it  is  time  to 
get  ready  for  it."  But  the  glory  had  gone  from  the  sun- 
shine— Lady  Valentine  no  longer  desired  a  drive. 

"  I  should  not  wonder  if  it  rains;  the  sky  is  not  so  blue 
as  it  was  half  an  hour  since.     I  do  not  care — " 

But  the  duchess  interrupted  her  with  a  laugh. 

"  Bun  away,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  and  look  your  bright- 
est; the  park  will  be  full  to-day." 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  the  duke  rose  hastily  to 
follow  her.  He  had  some  kind  of  dread  of  what  her  grace 
might  say.  She  merely  looked  at  him.  "  Bertrand,"  she 
said,  "will  you  spare  me  five  minutes  to-morrow?  I 
have  something  very  particular  to  say  to  you— only  five 
Oiiuutes." 


152  THI  duke's  SECllT. 

"Shall  itlD6  now,  mother?"*  he  asked,  with  reBignation, 

"No;  I  am  going  out  with  Lady  Valentine.  I  shall  be 
at  your  leisure  before  dinner  to-morrow,  if  you  can  spare 
a  few  minutes  then." 

He  knew  it  was  equivalent  to  a  royal  command.  Man 
as  he  was,  he  stiU  felt  something  like  fear  of  his  mother 
and  dread  of  long  interviews  with  her. 

He  seemed  to  ha^e  almost  an  instinct  of  what  was 
coming.  When  the  duchess  sent  for  him  to  her  boudoir, 
he  thought  of  the  time  when  she  had  sent  for  him  to  her 
boudoir  at  Rood  Castle.  Ah,  if  he  had  spoken  then.  For 
that  time  to  come  over  again,  he  would  have  given  his 
dukedom  and  aU  that  it  held.  He  thought  of  the  fair 
young  face  he  had  first  seen  under  the  lime-trees,  and  he 
could  have  cursed  his  own  folly  and  stupidity. 

The  duchess  rose  to  receive  him  ;  the  time  had  gone  by 
when  she  could  caU  him  to  her  side  and  place  him  before 
her  to  lecture  him  at  ease.  The  young  duke  saw  from 
her  face  that  what  she  had  to  say  was  of  au  anxious 
nature. 

"  Bertrand,"  she  began,  "I  would  have  avoided  this 
interview  if  I  could,  but  it  is  no  longer  possible.  I  must 
speak  ;  my  conscience  will  not  allow  me  to  be  silent  any 
longer.  It  is  some  time  since  I  have  spoken  to  you  of 
love  or  marriage,  because  I  have  reUed  impUcitly  on  your 
word  that  y  ou  would  always  keep  my  wishes  in  mind." 

"  I  have  done  so,"  he  repUed,  briefly. 

"But  with  little  result  until  the  present  time,"  said  the 
duchess.  "  I  have  thought  much  before  speaking  to  you, 
Bertrand.  It  seems  to  be  almost  Hke  a  betrayal  of  inno- 
cence ;  yet,  I  can  not  help  it.  Lady  Valentine  was  en- 
trusted to  me,  as  you  know — placed  under  my  care." 

"  I  know,"  he  replied. 

"  If  any  harm  happened  to  her  I  shoidd  hold  myself 
responsible  for  it,"  she  continued ;  "  and,  Bertrand,  I 
fear  that  harm  will  come  to  her — from  you." 

"From  me?"  he  cried,  looking  at  her  earnestly. 
"Why,  mother,  how  can  that  be?  I  would  not  harm 
even  one  hair  of  her  head.    I  like  the  child  exceedingly." 

"  She  is  not  a  child,"  said  the  duchess,  gravely. 

"Well,  the  young  lady,  then.  I  like  her  very  much, 
indeed." 

"  That  is  just  the  evil  of  it«"  said  the  duchess.  "I  woulcl 


THE  DFEE'S  SECBET.  153 

be  the  last  in  the  world  to  speak  of  it — to  betray  the  girl's 
secret ;  to  speak  of  that  which  I  have  discovered — but  my 
heart  aches  for  her — and — ^I  can  not  see  her  happiness 
wrecked." 

"  Speak  plainly,  then,  mother,  if  I  have  anything  to  do 
with  it,"  he  said,  feeling  horribly  certain  that  something 
was  coming  he  should  not  care  to  heai\ 

The  duchess,  with  her  white  jeweled  hand,  languidly 
moved  her  fan. 

*'  I  do  not  like  the  task,  Bertrand,  honestly  ;  but  I  must 
fulfill  it.     I  fear  very  much  for  her  peace  of  mind." 

"  I  hope  not,  mother,"  he  said  gravely. 

"She  is  very  young,"  said  the  duchess,  eager  in  the 
defense  of  her  favorite  ;  "not  only  that,  but  she  is  even 
childish  for  her  age — she  has  seen  so  little  of  life,  and  you 
are  the  first  Englishman  of  any  prestige  she  has  seen,  and 
will  not  think  it  flattery  if  I  add  that  I  do  not  wonder  at 
her  liking  you." 

He  looked  greatly  distressed. 

"Do  you  really  think  this  is  true,  mother?"  he  asked. 
"  I  would  rather  give  all  I  have  in  the  world  than  believe 
it" 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  the  duchess,   quickly. 

"  Because  she  is  such  a  sweet,  loveable,  sensitive  girL" 
he  answered. 

"  Well? "  said  the  duchess,  dryly. 

Again  the  handsome  face  grew  crimson. 

"  It  would  be  a  sad  pity  to  see  so  much  love  wasted,** 
he  said,  slowly. 

"That  is  the  question," said  the  duchess.  "Need it ba 
in  vain — must  it  be  in  vain?  I  have  asked  you  often 
enough  to  find  a  wife.  Could  you  anywhere  in  this  wide 
world  find  one  more  beautiful,  more  eligible  in  any  way, 
than  Lady  Valentine  ?    Answer  me,  Bertrand." 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  do  not  think  I  could." 

"  I  love  her.  I  have  seen  no  girl  whom  I  could  so  love 
as  a  daughter.  Hove  her,  she  loves  you;  now  why  not 
make  the  circle  complete  by  loving  her." 

"  I  hope  you  are  mistaken,  mother,"  he  cried.  "  I  hope 
she  does  not  love  me;  if  she  does  I  am  a  greater  coward 
than  I  thought  I  was." 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,  and  I  will  tell  you  no  half  truths, 
Bertrand — she  loves  you  better  than  any  one  else  will 


164  THE  duke's   SEOBBt.  ^ 

ever  do,  with  all  her  heart.     I  do  not  believe  she  has  a 
thought  v?^hich  does  not  begin  and  end  with  you." 

"  I  wish  you  had  told  me  before,"  he  said,  and  she  saw 
that  he  was  in  great  distresb. 

"  I  am  grieved  to  have  to  teU  you  now,"  she  replied. 
"  You  ought  to  have  seen  it  before.  I  feel  humiliatedf 
for  the  girl's  sake,  to  have  to  mention  it ;  but  now,  Ber- 
trand,  answer  me  one  question,  you  admit  that  Lady  Val- 
entine is  lovely  and  lovable — why  not  marry  her  ?  " 

The  very  question  he  had  feared,  and  for  which  he  had 
no  answer. 

"  Why  not  make  her  happy — make  me  happy,  and  win 
what  is  a  priceless  treasure — a  loving  wife  for  yourself  at 
the  same  time  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  thought  of  it  in  that  light,  mother,"  he  Baid> 
slowly. 

Her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  was  so  carried  away  by  im- 
patience that  she  positively,  for  the  first  and  only  time  in 
her  hfe,  stamped  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

"  Heaven  give  me  patience !  "  she  said.  "  I  do  think, 
Bertrand,  that  you  would  disturb  the  serenity  of  a  saint 
or  angel.  I  talk  to  you  of  a  girl  for  whom  half  London 
is  dying,  and  you  talk  about  not  seeing  things  in  that 
light.  Where  is  your  sense  of  poetry  and  romance? 
Why  are  you  not  like  other  young  men  ?  I  know  not 
one,  but  many,  who  would  give  all  they  have  for  one  such 
look  even  as  Valentine  continually  gives  you.  Is  your 
heart  a  stone  ?  I  do  not  understand  you.  Has  no  woman's 
face  a  charm  for  you  ?  Do  you  never  long  for  the  sound 
of  a  woman's  voice  ?  You  are  a  riddle  to  me,  Bertrand. 
Have  you  one  sensible  reason  to  give  me  why  you  should 
not  ask  Lady  Valentine  to  be  your  wife  ?" 

"Yes;  one  that  embraces  all  others.  I  have  never  once 
given  the  thing  such  a  thought,"  he  repHed. 

"  Will  you  think  of  it  now  ?"  she  asked. 

He  turned  to  her,  with  an  expression  of  resigned  de- 
spair. 

"  I  can  make  no  promises,  mother,"  he  said.  '•  Mother, 
you  mean  well,  but  you  make  my  Hfe  harder  to  bear.  I  have 
often  said  that  if  you  leave  it  to  me,  all  will  be  well." 

"  I  must  do  sopiething  at  once  over  Lady  Valentine. 
She  must  not  be  sacrificed.  If  I  thought  that  in  time  you 
would  leam  to  love  her,  I  would  not  interfere,  but  woul4 


THE  DITKE*S  8ICBST.  155 

let  matters  take  their  course;  but  if  I  thought  the  poor 
girl  was  losing  her  heart  to  you — and  in  vain — I  would 
take  her  away  at  once." 

"Give  me  a  few  days  in  which  to  think  it  over,  mother," 
he  said.  "I  can  not  bear  any  more  just  now  ; "  and  by 
his  face  as  he  quitted  the  room,  she  knew  that  she  had 
said  enough. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

GOnca    TO    HEB    DOOM. 

Long  and  anxiously  did  the  duke  think  of  all  that  his 
mother  had  said;  he  had  every  reason  to  beHeve  that  it 
was  true;  when  he  came  to  reflect  on  all  that  the  girl  had 
said  and  done,  he  became  quite  anxious  and  miserable. 
He  had  not  thought  of  winning  her  heart;  he  had  not  even 
thought  of  trifling  with  her.  He  liked  her  extremely, 
thought  her  graceful,  beautiful  and  gifted,  but  the  only 
woman  he  had  ever  loved,  was  his  wife,  Naomi,  whom  he 
had  lost  through  cowardice.  What  was  he  to  do?  The 
temptation  to  bury  the  past  and  marry  her  was  greater 
than  any  temptation  he  had  ever  known  before.  The  life 
before  him  looked  fair  enough;  she  was  young,  lovely  and 
loving.  He  would  have  the  sweetest  wife  in  England,  his 
mother  would  be  happy  beyond  words.  After  all,  it  was 
most  probable  that  Noami  was  dead.  Surely,  if  living,  she 
would  have  sent  him  one  line  or  one  message  before  now; 
must  he  sacrifice  his  whole  life  to  what  seemed  to  be  a 
shadow  ? 

And  that  sweet  buried  romance — ^that  sweet,  far-off  love 
— no  other  could  be  like  it;  this  face,  though  fair,  was  not 
so  fair  as  his  lost  wife's. 

"What  should  he  do  ?  He  was  in  a  far  greater  dilemma, 
it  seemed  now,  than  he  had  ever  been.  Again,  the  one 
clear,  straightforward  path  was  to  go  in  to  the  duchess  and 
tell  her  the  truth  ;  yet  it  was  more  impossible,  after  all 
these  years  of  concealment,  than  it  had  been  before.  He 
Would  rather  have  faced  death  ;  no  matter  what  complica- 
tions arose,  it  was  impossible  for  him  now  to  do  that.  He 
could  not  help  admitting  to  himself  that  if  it  had  not  been 
for  this  early  romance  of  his,  Lady  Valentine,  above  all 
others,  was  the  one  he  should  have  chosen  ;  he  could  have 
loved  her  with  all  Ids  heart,  if  his  heart  had  not  been 
given  to  another. 


156  THE  duke's  secbst. 

Even  HOW,  if  he  were  sure  that  he  was  free,  he  could 
have  passed  his  life  happily  enough  with  her,  but  thia 
sense  of  not  being  free  kept  him  from  saying  anything  to 
her. 

The  crisis  had  come  at  last ;  he  must  either  tell  Lady- 
Valentine  the  truth,  or  leave  home  not  to  return  till  she 
Was  gone.  Delay  would  be  dangerous  and  useless  ;  she 
must  be  told,  and  she  must  know  the  truth. 

But  for  that  tragical  past  he  could  have  taken  her  into 
his  arms  now  and  have  loved  her  and  gladly  have  made 
her  his  wife. 

He  had  the  feeling  usual  to  a  man  who  knows  he  is 
loved,  and  is  not  quite  sure  whether  it  is  in  his  power  to 
love  again  or  not;  half  content  that  he  should  be  loved, 
half  sorry  that  any  girl  should  give  her  heart  in  vain.  He 
saw  now  that  he  had  unconsciously  encouraged  her 
girlish  preference;  that  he  ought  to  have  left  home  or  told 
her  he  was  married.     He  had  not  been  fair  to  her. 

"  How  is  it,"  he  thought,  "  that  my  life  is  such  a  fail- 
ure ?  Where  women  are  concerned  I  am  always  wrong, 
never  right." 

Lady  Valentine  had  taken  deeper  hold  of  his  heart  than 
even  he  knew  himself.  Love  must  win  love  of  some  kind 
or  another,  and  her  girlish,  passionate  liking  for  him  had 
won  from  him  the  return  of  a  great  affection.  He  would 
have  liked  just  then  to  enjoy  his  freedom,  to  have  made 
her  happy  and  loved  her;  he  was  in  a  sea  of  doubt 
Naomi  had  been  away  from  him  so  long;  he  half  won-* 
dered  at  times  if  there  could  be  much  wrong  in  marrying 
Lady  Valentine. 

How  many  people  believed  that  seven  years'  absence 
and  desertion  form  a  legitimate  pretext  for  divorce.  He 
could  not.  In  some  things  he  had  been  weak,  and  had 
failed  woefully,  but  he  was  a  firm  believer  in  the 
sanctity  of  marriage,  and  in  the  holiness  of  its  bonds. 
However  strongly  the  temptation  was  urged  upon  him,  he 
knew  what  a  marriage  would  be  in  the  presence  of  God, 
and  what  name  his  children  would  bear  before  right* 
thinking  and  wise-judging  men. 

There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  tell  her  his  fatal  secret. 
He  knew  how  deeply  she  loved  him  when  he  thought 
over  all  that  had  passed  between  them. 

Se  had  thought  of  her  as  a  child  with  childieh  frank* 


TBDE  duke's  secret.  167 

ness  and  candor;  behold,  she  was  a  woman  in  her  pas- 
sionate love.  In  what  words  was  he  to  tell  her  his  ter- 
rible story  ?  Must  he  seem  anxious  for  her  love,  or  must 
he  ignore  it?  He  would  seem  vain,  presumptuous  and 
conceited,  if  he  even  alluded  to  her  love  for  himself  ;  he 
must  trust  to  inspiration.  He  had  time  on  the  following 
day  to  note  the  truth  of  what  the  duchess  had  said.  If 
ever  love  shone  in  a  human  face  it  was  in  hers  ;  if  ever 
eyes  told  a  sweet  love  story  hers  did,  and  he  wondered 
much  at  his  own  bhndness  in  not  having  seen  it  before. 

How  young  and  fair  and  fresh  she  was  ;  how  graceful 
and  winning;  the  very  kind  of  life  for  whom  one  might 
lay  down  his  life. 

There  was  a  flower  show  at  Kew,  and  the  duke  had 
agreed  to  drive  the  two  ladies  down.  There  would  be 
an  excellent  chance,  he  thought,  among  the  roses;  the 
duchess  was  sure  to  be  surrounded  by  friends,  and  he 
wovild  take  Lady  Valentine  away  from  the  crowd,  take 
her  down  to  the  banks  of  the  beautiful  river  and  tell  her 
his  story.  His  heart  touched  him  a  httle  when  she  went 
up  to  him  with  a  great  Hght  shining  on  her  face. 

"You  are  really  going  with  us,  duke?' she  asked, 
eagerly. 

"  Yes,  I  hope  so,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  it  will  be  a  real  gala  day.  How  I  love  roses  j 
and  I  have  a  Parisian  hat,  the  equal  of  which  will  not  be 
Been  at  Kew  or  elsewhere." 

"A  Parisian  hat?"  he  repeated.  "I  do  not  think  it 
can  improve  you." 

The  very  glow  of  health  and  of  the  fresh  sweet  morn- 
ing was  on  her  face.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  seen 
no  one  so  exquisite. 

A  few  minutes  later  and  she  stood  before  him,  looking 
more  beautiful  than  he  had  ever  seen  her.  Nothing 
beautifies  like  happiness;  going  out  with  him  was  the 
greatest  of  all  happiness  to  her.  She  wore  a  beautiful 
costume  of  pale -cream  color,  artistically  arranged;  and 
the  Parisian  hat  seemed  to  crown  the  fairest  head. 

"  You  are  pleased  with  me,"  she  said;  "I  can  always 
tell  when  you  are  pleased." 

"Can  you,"  he  asked,  laughingly;  "how?" 

'•There  are  lines  round  your  lips  that  never  relax  uulei* 
you  are  pleas^^— ^uite  pleased,  I  mewL" 


158  THB  DUES'S  SEOBKF. 

"  Ton  must  Iiave  studied  my  face  well,"  he  said,  car^ 
lessly. 

"  I  have,"  was  the  naive  reply,  "  I  know  it  almost  by 
heart." 

And  then  the  duchess  came  in,  ready  for  the  excursion, 
and  looked  magnificently  and  superbly  dressed.  It  was 
said  in  London  that  to  see  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne 
and  Lady  Valentine  Arden  together  was  a  rare  treai 
They  were  the  very  types  of  the  different  orders  of 
womanhood — the  one  in  the  fairest  spring-time  of  youth, 
slender  and  graceful  as  a  young  fawn;  the  other  in  the 
full  magnificence  of  womanhood. 

The  duke  looked  from  one  to  the  other  with  pleased,, 
proud  eyea 

The  day  was  beautiful ;  warm,  without  being  sultry 
with  a  blue  sky  and  fair  wind.  The  drive  down  to  Kich^ 
mond  was  most  enjoyable,  and  Lady  Valentine  was  in  the* 
highest  of  spirits.  To  be  with  him  at  any  time  was  a 
source  of  perfect  happiness  to  her;  but  to  have  the  pros- 
pect of  a  whole  beautiful  day  in  the  brightest  of  sunshine* 
was  mor«  delightful  than  ever;  the  sweet  face  was  ra«. 
diant,  the  eyes  eloquent  with  laughter  and  happiness. 

She  did  not  look  much  beyond  the  present,  this  happy,, 
girlish  creature;  she  did  not  analyze  her  heart,  she  did 
not  try  to  find  out  how  much  she  loved  him,  or  why;  all 
ehe  knew  was  that,  being  with  him  was  her  nearest  idea 
of  paradise,  and  without  him  the  whole  world  was  deso- 
late. It  is  not  often  that  a  girl  falls  so  completely  and  so 
unconsciously  in  love;  as  a  rule,  they  know  some  little 
about  it. 

She  never  bethought  herself  that  he  was  a  duke,  or  that 
his  wife  would  be  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  and  one 
of  the  wealthiest  peeresses  in  England;  she  never  thought  of 
the  glories  of  Rood  Castle,  of  the  dignities  that  would  be 
lavished  on  his  wife;  she  thought  only  of  him — it  was 
neither  his  wealth,  rank,  nor  position  she  cared  for,  noth- 
ing but  himself.  How  easily  ner  secret  was  read  in  those 
shining,  lovely  eyea 

They  found  the  flower  show  one  of  the  finest  ever  held; 
the  flowery  were  magnificent,  the  music  fine,  the  toilets 
of  the  ladies  most  exquisite.  There  was  an  unusual 
number  of  beautiftd  women  present;  and  the  duke  did 
Bot  find  it  quite  so  easy  to  get  her  away  from  the  crowd 


THE  duke's  secret.  159 

fts  he  expected  to  do.  The  brilliant  sunshine  lingered  ok 
a  fairy -like  scene. 

Lady  Valentine  was  certainly  the  most  beautiful  girl 
present.  He  realized  perhaps  for  the  fii'st  time  how  pop- 
ular she  was;  how  the  gentlemen  gathered  roimd  her,  all 
anxious  for  one  look  at  her  beautiful  face,  for  one  smiloj 
for  one  gleam  of  recognition;  he  saw  that  if  he  quitted 
her  side  for  one  moment  there  were  a  dozen  ready  to 
take  his  place.  The  duchess  had  joined  the  royal  party; 
and  he  Imew  that  she  would  not  be  at  hberty  for  some 
little  time. 

They  stopped  for  a  few  moments  to  look  at  some 
wonderful  geraniums,  and  then  he  whispered  to  her: 

"Valentine,  can  you  get  away  from  these  people?  I 
want  to  talk  to  you." 

Ah  me !  The  happy  eyes  raised  to  his,  a  lovely  flush 
rose  to  the  white  brow. 

"You  want  to  speak  to  me,  duke?  Certainly,  I  will 
get  away.     Let  us  go  to  the  lake." 

More  than  one  glance  followed  them.  Was  it  possible 
that  the  duke  was  caught  at  last  ? 

More  than  one  matron  thought  to  herself  that  the 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  had  done  a  very  clever  thing  in 
bringing  this  beautiful  young  girl  into  her  household. 

Lady  Everleigh  laughed. 

"I  shall  not  take  alarm  yet,"  she  said  ;  "after  my  ex- 
perience of  the  young  duke's  vagaries  it  will  take  more 
than  one  walk  to  convince  me  that  he  is  serious." 

So,  without  warning,  with  sunshine,  laughter,  music 
and  fragrance  all  around  her,  Lady  Valentine  went  to  her 
doom. 

CHAPTER  XXV. 

A.    Sm    AND   ITS    PENALTY. 

Pkbhaps  no  young  heart  ever  beat  with  greater  emotion 
than  that  of  Lady  Valentine  as  she  walked  away  with  the 
duke,  leaving  the  crowd  of  fair  women  and  gallant  men 
and  sweet  music  far  behind. 

"  Let  us  walk  down  to  the  river's  bank,"  said  the  duke; 
"  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

There  was  but  one  thing  he  could  want  to  talk  to  her 
about,  one  thing  alone  filled  her  heart  and  mind  ;  it  must 
be  of  that  he  wanted  to  speak. 


t6D  THE  DUKE'S  SE02ET. 

Throughout  the  lovely  flower  grounds,  through  the 
long  avenue  of  chestnuts,  past  the  sweeping  lawn,  down 
to  the  banks  of  the  fair  river.  The  odor  from  the  haw- 
thorn hedges  and  the  lilacs  reached  them  ;  the  grass  was 
studded  with  wild  flowers.  It  was  the  very  hour  for  love 
and  lovers ;  but  while  one  heart  beat  with  passionate 
delight,  the  other  was  heavy  with  sorrow  and  despair. 

The  duke  made  a  comfortable  seat  for  his  beautiful 
companion  by  the  river's  brink.  Until  the  end  of  her  life 
the  sight  of  a  clear,  deep  river  became  in  her  mind  asso- 
ciated with  misery  beyond  words.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  her  heart,  not  the  faintest,  not  the  least  shadow. 
The  blue  sky  and  the  sun  were  not  more  bright  than  the 
shore  she  believed  herself  to  have  reached.  She  looked 
up  into  his  face  as  he  sat  down  by  her  side,  the  handsome 
face  with  the  far-off  look  in  the  eyes,  and  the  dreamy 
half-sad  expression. 

He  would  look  brighter  than  that  very  soon,  she  thought. 
Near  her,  where  the  water  touches  the  green  leaves,  lay  a 
brilliant  mass  of  blue  forget-me-nots;  she  gathered  some 
of  them  and  held  them  in  her  hands.  She  never  looked 
upon  the  little  flower  again  without  tears. 

Then  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  turned  his  face  again  to 
her;  it  was  pale  with  emotion;  his  voice  was  low,  but  to 
her  unutterably  sweet. 

"  Lady  Valentine,"  he  said,  "  I  have  brought  you  here  to 
tell  you  a  secret  and  a  story  that  I  have  told  to  no  one ;  a 
secret  that,  like  vitrol  thrown  on  a  face,  has  burned  its  way 
into  my  life,  branded  my  heart  and  my  soul,  and  ruined 
my  whole  existence." 

It  touched  him  to  see  how  the  color  faded  from  the 
sweet  face,  and  how  a  look  of  terror  came  into  the  blue 
eyes.  This  was  not  what  she  had  expected  ;  this  was  no 
sweet  love  story.  "  They  say,"  he  continued,  "  that  every 
sin  brings  its  own  punishment ;  then,  indeed,  is  mine 
heavy,  heavier  than  I  can  bear.  I  tell  the  story  of  my 
sin  and  its  penalty,  as  a  preventive  against  myself  and  to 
save  you.     I  can  only  do  it  in  this  fashion." 

She  was  silent ;  all  the  happiness  that  had  made  earth 
heaven  to  her  had  suddenly  died.  Wliat  was  this  that 
she  was  brought  face  to  face  with  ?  "What  had  stolen  into 
that  bright,  peaceful  paradise — what  had  he  to   tell  her  ? 

J^  nr®uld  not  be  as  she  had  thought — ^he  would  not  clasp 


THE  DUEE's  SEGBET.  1^ 

lier  in  tm  uxim  and  tell  her  how  dearly  he  loved  her.    It 

was  pain,  sot  love  that  she  read  on  his  face. 

"  I  am  ashamed  to  tell,"  he  continued.  "HI  were  to 
listen  to  such  a  story  told  by  the  lips  of  another  man,  I 
*hould  have  hard  words  in  speaking  of  him — I  should 
call  him  a  coward !  You  like  me,  Lady  Valentine,  you 
think  well  of  me  now  ;  but  when  you  have  heard  my 
Btory  you  will  never  like  me  again." 

She  raised  her  fair  face,  with  its  shadowed  eyes  and 
quivering  lips,  to  his. 

"Do  not  say  that,"  she  cried;  "nothing  in  the  wide 
world  could  do  that;  nothing  could  make  me  like  you  less. 
Whatever  you  do,  whatever  you  have  done,  it  is  all  the 
same  to  me.     I  could  Uke  you  more,  never  less." 

The  words  fell  so  clearly  from  her  lips,  she  did  not  hesi- 
tate over  them.     He  looked  at  her  gratefully. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  you  can  form  no  idea,  you  have 
no  notion  of  my  story;  if,  after  hearing  it,  you  look  at  me 
with  horror,  rise  up  and  leave  me  with  anger  and  scorn, 
it  will  not  surprise  me,  I  deserve  it;  but  on  the  contrary 
when  you  have  heard  all  that  I  have  to  say,  if  you  can 
still  be  my  friend,  I  shall  think  myself  decidedly  the  most 
fortunate  man  on  earth." 

"You  may  think  that  now,  San  Sebastian,"  she  said, 
with  her  old  child-like  naivete,  "  for  nothing  that  you  can 
say  will  ever  change  me.  I  believe,  so  great  is  my  faith 
in  you,  that  if  I  saw  you  do  wrong  the  very  f«Nct  that  you 
did  would  make  it  seem  right  to  me." 

"  That  is  faith  indeed,"  said  the  dube;  *"  would  to  Heaven 
that  I  deserved  it.  BeHeve  me.  Lady  Valentine,  that  of 
all  the  evil  and  punishment  ift.at  have  followed  my  sin, 
none  is  so  great  a  penalty  as  this — telling  it  to  you." 

"  You  call  it  a  sin,"  Sue  said ;  "  but  I  am  sure  there  is 
no  sin  in  it.  "^^ben  I  look  at  your  face,  I  am  quito  sure 
of  it.  Sin  or  no  sin,  right  or  wrong,  nothing  can  make 
any  aifference  to  me  ;  my  belief  can  never  change." 

"Thank  you," he  said,  "you  make  it  more  easy  for 
me." 

Ht  never  forgot  the  fair  face  of  the  earl's  daughter, 
with  its  look  of  lofty  pride  and  most  tender  love. 

"  Give  me  your  hands,"  he  said  ;  "if,  as  I  go  on  they 
keep  with  me  I  shaU  understand  ;  if  you  take  them  from 
fiat  it  will  only  be  what  I  deserve."  ^ 


162  TSE  duke's  secret. 

"They  will  not  te  withdrawn,  from  you,  San  Sebas- 
tian," she  said,  "  and — wait  one  minute — if  it  pains  you 
go  m     h  to  tell  me  this  story,  why  tell  it  ?  " 

"  You  will  understand  when  you  have  heard  it,"  he 
replied. 

Only  Heaven  knew  how  he  was  to  begin,  and  what  it 
cost  him  to  tell  the  story,  of  the  mad  folly  of  his  youth,  of 
the  act  of  cowardice  for  which  he  had  suffered. 

The  sun  shone  on,  the  wind  whispered  to  the  tall  green 
trees,  the  great  boughs  stirred,  the  swift  river  ran  on, 
the  waters  washed  the  gre  en  roots  of  the  forget-me-nots, 
the  birds  sung  their  sweetest  song  while  he  told  her  the 
story  which  seemed  to  him  aU  shame.  She  Ustened  at 
first  in  utter  silence.  Once  or  twice  a  low  moan  came 
from  her  lips,  then  they  turned  deadly  pale,  and  she  said 
no  more. 

As  he  went  on  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  heart  was 
crushed — crushed  and  broken;  she  could  have  fallen  on 
her  face  and  died.  In  the  after  years  she  never  knew 
how  she  had  lived  through  the  anguish  of  that  hour.  He 
did  not  spare  himself,  he  made  no  excuses  for  his  weak- 
ness and  cowardice,  but  told  the  story  just  as  it  hap- 
pened. 

Her  face  was  white,  her  lips  pale,  her  hands  trembling 
— the  blue  forget-me-nots  had  fallen  from  them;  one 
bitter  sigh  came  from  the  depths  of  a  crushed  heart — 
while  the  river  rolled  on  and  the  birds  sung. 

A  whole  volume  could  not  have  held  the  pathos  that  lay 
in  the  few    words  she  uttered: 

"  Oh,  San  Sebastian !" 

There  was  .1  world  of  traffic  despair  in  them.  Still  the 
white  hands  were  not  taken  from  his  clasp;  they  lay  cold 
and  quiet  in  his. 

"  That  is  the  story  of  my  life,  Valentine,"  he  said. 
**  Tell  me  what  you  think  of  it." 

Then  as  the  little  whii^e  hands  stirred  in  his,  just  as  the 
faithful  loving  heart  l»^at  with  renewed  tenderness  for 
him: 

"  I  am  so  g^eved  tcr  yoa,"  she  said,  gently^  and  the 
^ords  fell  slowly  from  her  white  lipa  "  My  first 
thought  is  for  your  sorrow  and  pain." 

He  saw  the  change  in  the  sweet  young  face,  the  I  ue  of 
death  that  had  overspread  it  the  despondent  tonia  o^  the 


THE  DUKE'S  SECEET.  163 

itear  voice.  Oh,  what  a  treasure  he  was  casting  from  him, 
the  love  of  this  most  loving  heart  I 

It  was  piteous  to  see  how  her  lips  quivered,  as  she  tried  in 
vain  to  keep  the  big  tears  from  falling.  She  was  so  untried 
in  the  ways  of  sorrow.  At  last,  with  a  deep,  breathless  sob, 
she  said: 

"  Oh,  San  Sebastian,  I  never  dreamed  that  you  were 
married  I"  All  the  bitterness  of  her  heart,  all  the  bitterness 
of  her  disappointment  came  out  in  that  cry.  *'  I  did  not 
know  that  you  were  married  I"  It  went  to  his  heart;  and 
still  the  loving  hands  were  not  taken  from  hia 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  lurgently,  "what  you  think  of  my 
■tory?" 

The  pale  face  smiled  into  his. 

" I  understand  it,"  she  said;  "I  know  exactly  what  yoa 
thought,  where  you  failed.  I  see  why  you  call  yourself  a 
coward.  It  is  because  you  did  not  speak  at  the  right  mo- 
ment; it  would  certainly  have  been  much  better  if  you  had 
done  so;  but  I  can  understand,  judging  you  quite  justly, 
why  you  did  not.  You  took,  I  should  imagine,  a  hvuried 
view  of  the  situation,  and  decided  that  you  could  set  every- 
thing straight  afterward,  with  far  less  trouble  and  annoy- 
ance than  you  could  do  it  just  at  that  moment.  Is  that  it  T' 

He  wondered  how  she  should  understand  him  so 
thoroughly  when  the  young  wife  whom  he  had  loved  so 
fondly  had  failed. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said,  "it  was  just  in  that  way.  I 
thought  I  had  but  to  see  her  again  and  tell  her  why  I 
had  acted  in  that  fashion.  I  have  never  seen  her  since. 
It  was  cowardice,  moral  cowardice,  Valentine." 

"  I  will  not  call  it  so,"  she  rephed;  "  I  will  never  own 
^hat  you  could  do  wrong!  You  may  make  mistakes,  but 
that  is  all" 

"  Then  you  neither  hate  nor  despise  me  ?  "  he  said. 

The  true  woman's  heart  awoke  vdthinher;  the  love  that 
is  all  sacrifice  and  no  self  came  to  her. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "You  have  siiffered  and  you  are 
unhappy,  therefore  I  love  you  more,'* 

"  My  true,  dear—" 

Then  he  paused  abruptly.  What  right  had  he  to  use 
those  words  to  her?  "What  had  he  lost  in  this  treasure 
that  might  have  been  his. 

*'l uaderstA»d  uow/'  she  said,  "all  that  has  eTsr  puz< 


l$i  THE  DUS£*S  SEGBET. 

xled  me.  Tou  look  like  a  man  who  has  lost  something — 
I  always  thought  so — now  I  see  what  you  have  lost  Your 
eyes  are  always  seeking  something  you  never  find.  Oh, 
San  Sebastian,  tell  me,  tell  me,  did  you  love  her  very 
much  ?  Tell  me  all  about  her;  was  she  fair  ?  did  she  love 
you  ?  How  coidd  she,  having  loved  you  once,  stay  away 
from  you  all  this  time  ?  " 

CHAPTER  XXYL 

TBUX  LOVB  NBVEE  FALTEES. 

The  beautiful  violet  eyes  were  riveted  on  his  face.  She 
was  quite  unconscious  of  the  love  and  pain  that  she  her- 
self expressed  in  every  tone  of  voice.  San  Sebastian  had 
always  been  her  ideal  of  aU  that  was  perfect  in  man;  she 
could  not  so  soon  change  her  ideas  of  him ;  she  could  not 
judge  him  as  she  woidd  another  man ;  she  could  not  see 
faults  or  wrong  in  him. 

So  she  sat  looking  at  him  vnth  bewildered  eyes,  and 
wondering  why  this  horrible  cloud  had  faUen  over  her 
life — wondering  what  this  horrible  pain  at  her  heart 
meant — wondering  why  life  should  hold  such  grief. 

"  Did  she  love  you  very  much  ?"  That  was  the  burden 
of  her  thoughts  and  her  questions;  that  was  the  main 
point.  Had  he,  this  man  whom  she  loved  with  her  whole 
heart,  had  he  known  what  it  was  to  love  and  to  receive 
the  sweet  love  of  a  tender-hearted  woman  ? 

She  had  learned  to  think  that  he  belonged  to  her;  that 
he  was  in  some  vague  way  her  own  property  and  posses- 
sion. It  had  been  to  her  like  a  little  world,  guarded  by 
her  own  heart:  and  lol  here,  aU  at  once,  she  finds  it  has 
been  in  possession  of  another  long  before  she  knew  even 
of  its  existence.  Had  he  been  merely  a  friend  or  ao- 
quaintance,  his  story  would  have  been  a  shock  to  her; 
but  being  what  he  was,  her  hero  and  her  ideal,  it  was  like 
a  death-blow. 

She  was  like  a  fair,  young  child,  who  had  been  playing 
in  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  coming  suddenly  upon  the 
edge  of  a  precipice,  and  gazing  down  into  its  depths,  sees 
the  darkness  and  flames  of  helL  Life  had  been  a  fair 
poem  to  her ;  she  knew  less  than  nothing  of  its  darker 
side.  She  knew  that  there  was  a  fair  passion  called  love, 
which  began  on  earth  and  ended  in  heaven,  but  she  wai 


THE  duke's  SEuikxiC,  165 

quite  igBoraat  of  all  bad  loves — of  all  wrong,  sinful  loves  ; 
«he  knew  nothing  of  its  tragedies  and  its  despairs,  nothing 
of  its  shame  and  degradation. 

This  story  of  his  was  a  terrible  puzzle  to  her,  but  she 
took  it  all  in  good  faith  ;  there  were  reasons  for  aJl  that  lie 
had  done.  She  knew  how  great  was  the  pride  of  the 
duchess  ;  how  entirely  her  son  loved  and  submitted  to 
her.  How  averse  he  was  at  all  times  and  on  all  occasions 
from  doing  anything  which  would  grieve  or  vex  her; 
therefore  she  could  understand,  in  some  measure,  why  he 
had  acted  as  he  had  done  ;  and  in  her  own  heart — per- 
haps because  she  had  loved  him  so — she  was  inclined  to 
blame  the  young  wife  who  had  left  him  for  so  long  with- 
out one  word,  and  whose  absence  had  placed  him  in  such 
a  dilemma.  She  laid  her  hand  on  her  heart  as  though 
she  were  in  pain,  when  she  asked  him  for  the  third  time  : 

"  Duke,  did  she  love  you  very  much  ?" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "very  much  indeed.  It  seems  so 
long  ago  I  can  hardly  remember  it  all.  I  have  had  no 
portrait  of  her  to  keep  my  memory  alive,  and  I  have 
great  difficulty  in  recollecting  her  face  clearly.  When  I 
try  to  think  of  it,  it  always  seems  to  be  blotted  out  by  a 
mist  of  tears.  Ah,  yes,  she  loved  me  very  dearly  I  Even 
now  I  feel  the  clasp  of  her  warm  hands." 

He  did  not  notice  how  instantaneously  she  withdrew 
hers — the  white,  wistful  pain  in  her  face  was  lost  on  him. 

He  went  on. 

"I  remember  her  voice;  I  remember  the  ecstacy  of  her 
happiness  when  we  did  meet;  I  remember  how  she  hated 
to  leave  me.  My  poor  Naomi!  She  must  have  loved 
me  very  much." 

"  Did  she  want  to  go  out  with  you  and  be  with  you 
always  ?"  she  asked,  knowing  well  tiie  form  her  affection 
took.  •'*  Did  she  want  to  be  with  you  all  day  long,  and 
"when  you  left  her  do  nothing  but  long  for  your  re- 
turn r 

«  Yes,"  he  repUed,  "she  did  aH  that." 

"  And   you — did   you  love  her  as  much  ?"  Jhe  asked. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  quickly.  "  She  was  my  first  love.  I 
worshipped  her;  but  it  is  all  confused  now,  and  'A  is  long 
since.  I  forget  much;  although  she  was  my  wife,  after 
that  one  week  we  saw  so  little  of  each  other,  even  my 
memoiies  pf  her  are  all  dazed,  it  seeiua  to  sue.    If  sL9 


166  THE  DUXES  SECEET. 

came  back  to  me  to-morrow  in  the  same  guise  she  left 
me  I  shotild  recognize  her;  but  if  I  met  her  anywhere,  I 
doubt—" 

"And  yet  she  is  your  wife,"  said  Lady  Valentine, 
reproachfully. 

"  Yes,  my  wife,  and  I  love  her  ;  but  I  see  clearly  now  ; 
my  eyes  were  blinded  with  the  glamour  of  love  ;  I  see 
clearly,  and  I  know  that  in  marrying  her  I  did  a  wrong, 
foohsh  thing ;  a  senseless,  selfisli  action  ;  it  seemed  to 
me,  then,  very  heroic  ;  now  I  know  that  it  was  only  the 
mad  folly  of  my  mad  youth.  I  did  a  worse  action  still 
when  I  let  her  go  out  of  my  mother's  presence  without 
having  told  the  truth.  You  will  never  think  of  me  as  a 
hero  again,  Valentine." 

"  Indeed  I  shall ;  you  will  always  be  the  same  to  me. 
Love  is  not  love  if  anything  can  change  it,"  The  words 
escaped  her  without  thought ;  but  when  she  had  uttered 
them  her  face  flushed  crimson.  "I  mean,"  she  added, 
"  that  true  friendship  can  never  change." 

He  turned  eagerly  to  her. 

"  Lady  Valentine,"  he  asked,  "may  I  be  frank,  unworldly, 
and  sincere  ?  May  I  say  exactly  what  is  on  my  mind — 
what  fills  my  heart  and  soul  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  say  anything  you  will ;  the  more 
you  tell  me  the  more  I  shall  understand." 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  swift  rushing  river,  and  the 
sunlight  that  lay  on  its  waters.  Oh,  Heaven,  how  the 
bright  sun  of  her  life  had  set  I 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  "  say  anything  you  like." 

"  Half  a  confidence  is  worse  than  none,"  he  said.  "  I 
will  tell  you  every  thought  of  my  heart.    If  I  speak 

?lainly,  brusquely,  forgive  me;  I  mean  only  to  be  honest, 
'ou  can  quite  understand  how  terrible  my  dilemma  is; 
my  mother  urging  me  to  marry — her  happiness,  almost 
her  life  depending  on  it;  and  I  can  not  marry,  for  I  do 
not  know  whether  my  wife  is  living  or  dead.  No  day 
passes  on  which  she  fails  to  appeal  to  me,  to  urge  me. 
She  has  introduced  me  to  the  sweetest  and  best  of  women; 
I  have  hardly  looked  at  them.  The  world  calls  me  a 
woman-hater;  I  am  simply  a  man  who  once  loved  a 
woman  so  dearly  that  I  flung  away  my  Hfe  for  her.  You 
will  naturally  ask  me,  '"WTiy  do  I  not  tell  my  mother?' 
My  answer  is  this,  'She  is  unhappy  enough  now;  but  i| 


THE  duke's  secret.  167 

I  told  her  this  secret  of  mine,  I  beUeve  it  would  kill  her. 
She  would  suffer  so  terribly  from  the  mortificatiori  and 
humihation,  it  would,  I  beheve,  break  her  heart.'  That  is 
why  I  do  not  tell  her." 

"I  am  sure  it  would,"  said  Lady  Valentine;  and  she  re- 
membered what  the  duchess  had  said  to  her  about  Lady 
Eveileigh.     She  understood  it  now. 

"  I  have  never  Hked  to  tell  her.  I  may  say  plainly  I 
never  dared  ;  and  each  year,  as  it  rolls  on,  has  made  the 
task  more  difficult.  I  believe  now  that  I  could  do  any- 
thing in  the  world  other  than  tell  her  ;  she  would  never 
have  another  happy  moment  in  her  hfe.  I  know  she 
suffers  from  suspense — that  same  suspense  would  be- 
come unendurable  anguish  if  she  knew  all." 

"  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  gravely. 

He  continued  : 

"  I  have  made  every  effort,  every  human  and  possible 
effort ;  but  it  has  been  in  vain,  I  can  discover  no  trace 
of  her,  not  the  least  or  the  faintest.  It  has  spoiled  my 
Hfe  ;  but  I  deserved  it." 

The  little  hand  stole  back  into  his  when  he  said  that. 

"No,"  she  replied,  "you  shall  not  say  that.  I  will 
never  have  even  you,  yourself,  say  one  word  against  your- 
self." 

"  It  has  spoiled  my  life.  I  have  had  no  such  life  as 
falls  to  the  lot  of  other  men.  My  home  has  not  been 
brightened  by  love  ;  my  days  and  my  heart  have  been 
empty  ,  but  I  never  felt  this  until  I  knew —  You  will 
forgive  me  for  what  I  am  going  to  say  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said  ;  and  her  heart  seemed  to  thrill  with 
the  pain  of  what  was  coming. 

"  I  knew  all  I  had  lost  from  my  life  when  I  saw  you.  I 
am  not  going  to  confess  that  I  have  a  lover's  love  for  you, 
you  would  but  despise  me  the  more;  but  when  you  come 
to  our  home,  so  young,  so  fresh,  so  beautif  ill,  so  loving,  and 
my  mother  so  utterly  devoted  to  you,  I  realize  how 
happy  I  could  have  been  if  I  might  have  asked  you  to  be 
my  wife.  I  felt  my  heart  going  to  you,  and  I  have  told 
you  now  the  truth,  so  that  between  us  there  shall  be  no 
shadow,  no  untruth,  no  false  position.  You  know  the 
truth  now,  Lady  Valentine,  the  simple  truth  that  if  I 
had  been  free  to  woo  you  and  win  you,  I  sbould  have 
been  the  happiest  man  on  earth.    That  which  I  have  tol4 


168  THE  duke's  secret. 

you  is  the  strongest  baxrier  that  can  be  placed  betweeB 
us." 

* '  I  know  it,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  continued,  "  I  have  not  been  so  guarded, 
under  the  circumstances,  as  I  ought  to  have  been.  I 
have  been  perhaps,  too — what  shall  I  say  ?  how  shall  I 
express  it  ? — too  familiar.  I  have  shown  such  liking  for 
you,  for  your  society,  that  I  may  have  misled  you." 

"  No,"  she  said,  faintly.  "  The  first  moment  I  saw  you  I 
liked  you.  I  can  not  tell  how  or  why,  but  I  did  Vke  you — • 
in  a  way  that  is  quite  different  to  the  way  in  which  I  have 
liked  anybody  else.  That  was  not,  because  you  had  sought 
my  society,  for  I  had  never  seen  you  before  ;  yet  I  liked 
vou,  your  face  was  just  the  picture  of  the  San  Sebastian  I 
had  seen  and  loved  all  my  life.  I  remember  how  my  heart 
went  out  to  you,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  it  was  my  San 
Sebastian  come  to  life.  It  could  not  be  because  it  sought 
me;  from  the  moment  I  saw  you,  in  some  strange  way, 
you  seemed  to  fill  the  world  for  me,  you  became  the  center 
of  everything  to  me — how  could  that  be  your  fault  ?" 

She  was  perfectly  sure  that  in  those  few  words  she  made 
a  complete  confession  of  love  to  him.  She  had  not  thought 
of  that;  all  she  thought  of  was  that  he  should  not  have  the 
additional  pain  of  thinking  he  had  misled  her.  She  was 
eager  to  impress  him  with  the  belief  that  her  great  liking 
for  him  was  natural  and  came  at  first,  and  had  not  been 
brought  abont  by  any  seeking  of  his;  and  she  forgot — in 
her  anxiety  to  assure  him  of  this — that  she  was  betraying 
her  love  for  him. 

He  saw  it,  and  the  grave,  simple  words  pierced  his  heart. 
If  he  had  been  free,  all  that  world  of  love  shovdd  not  have 
been  lavished  on  him  in  vain.  He  saw  and  heard  it  with 
the  deep  sorrow  of  a  naturally  noble  soul — that  the  girl 
had  unconsciously  given  to  him  the  deepest  trust,  the  mosfc 
passionate,  the  most  earnest  love  of  her  life. 

CHAPTER  XXVn. 

THE  DUCHESS   PUZZLED. 

They  were  silent  for  a  few  minutes.  For  Lady  Valen- 
tine, the  whole  world  had  changed,  the  music  had  gone 
from  the  bird's  song,  a  funeral  pall  lay  over  the  blue  sky 
aad  the  laughing  earth;  her  youth,  her  love  and  hope 


THE  dcke's  secbet.  169 

teemed  suddenly  to  have  sliriveleu  up  and  left  her.  It 
was  like  going  from  a  land  of  laughing  sunlight  to  one  of 
gray,  leaden  fog  and  utter  darkness.  The  river  still  ran 
on,  the  birds  still  sung,  but  the  melody  which  filled  her 
heart  when  she  first  went  there,  was  never  to  be  heard  in 
that  same  heart  again. 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  for  a  promise  of  secrecy,"  said 
the  duke,  "  for  I  know  that  nothing  would  ever  induce  you 
to  utter  one  word  of  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  No,"  she  said;  "  I  would  rather  die." 

"  I  know  it,  and.  Lady  Valentine,  if  by  keeping  my 
secret  too  closely,  if  by  seeking  you  constantly,  if  in  any 
way  I  have  misled  you,  caused  you  pain,  will  you  forgive 
me?" 

"  I  have  nothing  to  forgive,  San  Sebastian,"  she  said. 
*'  Tour  friendship  has  been  the  happiest  event  of  my  life. 
I  would  rather  be  your  friend  than  the  dearest  love  of 
another.  I  have  nothing  to  forgive  ;  if  I  had  not  known 
you  I  should  never  have  known  how  beautiful  life  could 
be." 

"  You  make  me  hate  myself  when  you  speak  in  that 
strain,"  the  duke  said,  hurriedly.  "  If  I  thought  you  would 
ever  suffer  one  moment's  pain  through  me  I  should 
despair." 

And  she,  with  an  effort  that  was  heroic,  said  : 

"  We  will  not  talk  of  suffering  ;  my  greatest  happiness 
is  to  have  known  you." 

He  kissed  the  white  hand  that,  despite  the  wound  he 
had  given  her,  lay  so  trustingly  in  his. 

"  It  was  quite  natural,"  he  said,  "  that,  seeing  so  much 
of  each  other,  we  should  like,  and  even  learn,  perhaps,  to 
love  each  other  ;  but  now  we  shall  be  the  dearest  friends." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  quietly,  "the  dearest  of  friends." 

But  only  Heaven  knew  the  pain  that  filled  her  heart  as 
she  uttered  the  word.  She  had  awakened  suddenly  to 
the  knowledge  that  she  loved  him  as  she  would  never  love 
any  one  else,  and  that  he  could  never  be  anything  to  her 
because  he  belonged  to  another. 

"I  am  so  glad  I  have  told  you;  the  weight  of  a  secret 
is  intolerable;  now  you  will  share  it  with  me.  I  know 
it  seems  absurd  for  a  man  who  may  be  called  a  man  of 
the  world  to  ask  advice  of  a  j'oung  girl  like  you,  but 
/our  instinct  will  reach  a  point  where  reason  will  nevAK 


17C  THE  duke's  SECWnf. 

take  me.  Tou  can  be  the  most  useful  to  me;  you  can 
be  my  comrade  and  ally — I  want  one.  I  would  not 
bind  your  sweet  life  and  sweet  youth  to  me;  it  would 
be  selfish,  wicked  and  cruel." 

She  understood  what  he  meant,  although  he  said  no 
word,  and  it  was  that  if  ever  he  found  himself  free  he 
would  fly  to  her. 

"  I  will  help  you  in  every  way  I  can,"  she  replied. 

"  Help  me  to  find  Naomi,"  he  cried.  "  On  earth,  living 
or  dead,  somewhere  there  must  be  a  trace  of  her;  help 
me  to  find  her." 

"  I  will ;  I  will  be  your  true  friend,  helper,  sister,  com- 
rade— all  that  you  require;  I  will  devote  myself  to  you, 
to  doing  all  that  I  can  for  you.  I  know  that  in  many 
little  ways  I  can  help  you,  and  I  will.  But  it  seems  to  me 
a  desperate  hope,  indeed,  to  look  for  one  woman  in  such 
a  vast  world — above  all,  if  she  does  not  want  to  be  found. 
Do  you  think  so  yourself  ?  " 

"I  do.  I  have  thought  so  for  many  years  past,"  he  re- 
plied. "  I  am  quite  sure  of  one  thing,  and  it  is  this,  that 
if  on  the  habitable  globe  there  is  any  trace  of  her,  Michael 
Droski  will  discover  it.  I  could  not  have  placed  it  in 
better  hands;  he  will  find  her  if  she  is  to  be  found.  It 
will  be  so  great  a  comfort  to  me  to  know  that  you  share 
my  secret  and  my  sorrow,"  he  continued.  "  When  you 
hear  people  call  me  a  woman-hater  you  will  know  why, 
you  will  remember  it  is  not  true,  that  my  fault  has  been 
loving  one  woman  too  much.  If  people  talk  because  you 
and  I  are  much  together,  because  we  ride,  drive,  dance, 
sing,  or  talk  together;  we,  ourselves,  shall  know  the  truth, 
and  our  friendship  will  hurt  no  one." 

"  If  I  can  help  or  comfort  you,"  she  said,  "  I  care  little 
^hat  any  one  may  say — it  will  be  a  matter  of  perfect  in- 
difference to  me." 

"Tou  can  and  will  be  the  greatest  comfort  in  the  world 
to  me,"  he  replied.  "  As  I  have  said,  I  would  not  in  this 
state  of  things  bind  your  sweet  hfe  to  mine,  but  I  have 
been  thinking  very  seriously  I  must  do  something.  If 
Michael  Droski  assures  me  that  there  is  no  chance  of  ever 
finding  her,  the  law  has  a  certain  loop-hole  of  escape  for 
me;  after  all  these  years  of  desertion  I  could  recover  my 
freedom,  but  it  would  be  at  the  expense  of  publicity—* 
thing  from  which  I  shrink  more  than  from  death." 


THE  duke's  segbet.  171 

**Tell  me  one  thing,"  she  said,  wistfully,  do  not  think 
it  an  impertinent  question,  but  do  you  wish  with  all  your 
heart  to  find  her  ?  " 

"  I  oannot  tell,"  he  replied.  "  Would  to  Heaven  I 
could.  I  do  not  know  my  own  heart  or  mind.  I  am  con- 
fused, I  can  not  tell  whether  if  she  appeared  before  me 
this  moment  I  should  be  most  glad  or  sorry.  It  is  not 
want  of  truth  or  loyalty.  I  have  suffered  so  much,  and  I 
have  forgotten  so  much.  Did  she  bring  me  most  happi- 
ness? that  is  the  question  I  often  asked  myself,  apd  I  can 
not  answer  it.  The  girl  who  pleased  me  then  woidd 
probably  displease  now.  Another  idea  that  often  occurs 
to  me  is  this  :  She  was  a  wonder  of  grace  and  good 
breeding.  In  all  my  life  I  have  met  no  one  whose 
manner  was  so  perfect  ;  but,  poor  child,  whan  she  left 
her  only  home  she  had  no  money.  I  can  not  think  how 
she  has  lived  all  these  years.  And  I  have  often  won- 
dered if  she  had  to  mix  with  a  common  class  of  people — 
if  in  the  struggle  to  gain  her  bread  she  has  lost  grace. 
Ah,  me,  Valentine,  I  have  a  thousand  thoughts  of  her,  all 
puzzling  ;  all  unhappy.  I  can  not  tell  whether  I  dread  or 
long  to  find  her  most.     I  do  not  know." 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,"  she  said,  slowly,  trampling  ner 
own  pain  and  anguish  under  foot.  "A  strange  story.  Who 
would  have  thought  you  had  such  a  secret  in  your  life. 
Who  would  have  imagined  that  you,  the  wealthiest  duke 
in  England,  young,  handsome,  with  every  gift  that  Heaven 
can  give  you — who  would  imagine  that  your  life  was  a  trag- 
edy !  Yet,  I  always  thought  there  must  be  some  reason 
why  your  face  was  so  sad.  Naturally  speaking,  sadness 
had  little  to  do  with  you.  I  might  have  known  there  was 
something  terribly  wrong.     It  is  worse  than  I  thought." 

" It  is  hard  enough  in  all  conscience,"  he  said.  "Oh, 
child,  do  not  waste  your  beautiful  life  on  me.  I  am  not 
worthy  of  it.  There  are  men  in  this  world,  loyal,  and  true, 
who  wovdd  give  their  lives  for  one  kind  look  from  you. 
Think  of  them;  find  some  one  worthy  of  the  purest,  sweet- 
est love  that  could  ever  be  given." 

"It  is  too  late,"  she  answered,  with  a  slow  smile.  "  Do 
not  preach  to  me,  San  Sebastian.  I  shall  find  my  life  happy 
enough  if  I  may  be  your  friend.  We  must  go,  duke;  we 
have  been  here  a  long  time.  See  how  the  shadows  of  thq 
tr«e»  have  changed,  and  the  gold  has  gone  troga  the  xiYer." 


172  THE  DXJKkti  ZTXTXT. 

She  made  a  brare  fight;  she  was  determined  that  in> 
should  not  see  what  she  suffered  and  felt.  She  would  gc 
back  with  smiles  on  her  lips;  he  should  not  know  that 
she  loved  him  with  all  her  heart,  and  love  him  in  vaiE^ 
She  would  go  back  with  smile  and  laughter;  she  would 
meet  her  friends  with  gay  words;  no  one  should  know 
that  she  had  been  to  the  banks  of  the  river  to  have  her 
heart  broken. 

"  We  must  go,"  she  repeated,  hastily,  with  a  look  at 
her  watch;  "we  have  been  here  more  than  an  hour." 

She  continued  to  talk  with  him  on  different  subjects — • 
no  word  could  tell  what  it  cost  her  to  do  so.  The 
duchess  by  this  had  left  the  royal  party,  and  was  wait- 
ing for  them — waiting  impatiently  too,  for  they  had 
several  engagements  for  the  evening,  including  an  invi- 
tation to  a  ball  at  one  of  the  royal  houses;  yet  she  waited 
patiently  enough. 

Her  quick  eye  had  detected  the  withdrawal  of  her  son 
and  Lady  Valentine,  even  when  she  talked  with  her  usual 
brilhancy  and  wit  to  the  royal  party;  she  had  watched 
them  out  of  sight,  and  she  said  to  herself  that  the  happiest 
moment  of  her  life  had  arrived — that  her  son  was  cer- 
tainly wooing  for  himself  this  beautiful  girl  whom  she 
loved  like  a  daughter.  She  saw  that,  although  Lady 
Valentine  was  talking  and  laughing  gayly  enough,  she 
looked  very  pale — so  pale  that  the  duchess  resolved  to 
call  her  carriage  at  once. 

"I  am  right,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  he  has  told  her  that 
he  loves  her,  and  she  is  agitated.  We  will  get  home 
quickly;  they  are  sure  to  tell  me  on  the  way." 

The  pallor  did  not  leave  the  beautiful  young  face,  though 
Lady  Valentine  laughed  and  talked  as  gayly  as  ever; 
neither  did  she  say  one  word  of  that  which  the  duchesa 
expected  to  hear — not  one  word. 

"Come  to  my  dressing-room,"  said  her  grace  to  the 
young  girl,  "  and  we  w'll  talk  over  the  party." 

She  went;  but  even  t^en  there  was  not  one  syllable,  and 
hu  Chrace  of  Gastlema'  ne  was  more  puzzled  than  over. 


«EE  dttke's  secbet.  179 


CHAPTEB  XXYHL 

A   NIW  BEAUTY  IN   THE   FIELD. 

•*I  SHOULD  say,"  thought  the  duchess  to  herself,  "that 
no  woman  living  has  ever  had  so  much  anxiety  over  4 
good  son  as  I  have  had." 

She  was  quite  out  of  spirits  and  out  of  heart;  and  had 
most  implicitly  believed  that  when  the  duke  took  Lady 
Valentine  away  from  the  crowd,  it  was  to  ask  her  to  be  hia 
wife.  What  could  they  have  been  talking  about  all  that 
time?  She  had  never  been  so  surprised  or  so  disap- 
pointed. 

When  Lady  Valentine  reached  her  dressing-room  the 
duchess  said  to  her  : 

"  Sit  down  and  join  me  ;  I  shall  have  a  cup  of  coffee  ; 
it  is  more  refreshing  than  anything  else  after  such  a  hard 
day." 

The  girl  did,  listlessly,  just  as  she  was  told. 

"  You  look  tired,  Valentine,"  said  her  grace. 

"  Yes,  I  am  tired,"  was  the  brief  answer  ;  then,  think- 
ing that  perhaps  she  had  failed  in  courtesy,  she  added, 
"  I  think  flower  shows  the  prettiest,  but  decidedly  the 
most  fatiguing  form  of  entertainment  you  have  in  Eng- 
land. It  is,  I  should  imagine,  the  constant  strain  of 
attention  in  looking  at  so  many  brilliant  colors." 

"  I  always  find  picture  galleries  very  fatiguing, "  said 
her  grace.  "  But,  my  dear  Valentine,  I  do  not  think  you 
fatigued  yourself  much  with  the  flowers  to-day.  I  fancied 
you  were  with  Bertrand  by  the  river  for  a  long  time." 

"  Now,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "  if  there  be  anything 
in  it  here  is  an  opening,  and  she  will  tell  me." 

But  Lady  Valentine  was  silent ;  the  duchess  took 
courage. 

"  You  must  have  been  there  quite  an  hour  and  a  half," 
said  the  duchess.  "  What  where  you  talking  about, 
Valentine?" 

No  flush  crimsoned  her  face  ;  the  duchess  would  have 
taken  courage  had  it  been  so ;  but  the  pale,  quiet  fac» 
told  no  story. 

"  We  talked  about  many  things,"  she  replied,  quietly. 
*'  The  duke  was  tellii\g  me  of  his  early  l£te,  and  abotti 
Bood  Castl«.* 


174  '  THE  duke's  secret. 

She  did  not  know  all  the  ring  had  gone  from  her  Toice, 
nor  how  dispirited  and  melancholy  it  was.  The  duchess 
looked  up  quietly. 

"  He  had  said  nothing  to  her,  and  she  is  disappointed," 
was  the  idea  that  occurred  to  her.  She  had  but  faint 
hope  now,  and  her  next  question  showed  her  that  *11 
further  inquiry  was  vain. 

"And  among  all  the  nice  things  he  has  said  about 
Kood  Castle,  or  anything  else,  is  there  nothing  to  tell 
me  ?"  she  asked,  half  laughingly,  but  with  every  sense  on 
the  alert. 

"  I  think  not,"  said  the  girl,  slowly.  "  What  a  lovely 
river  the  Thames  is.  I  should  like  to  go  from  one  end 
to  the  other  of  it,  and  have  time  to  note  all  the  different 
scenery  on  its  banks." 

From  which  abrupt  change  of  subject  the  duchess  very 
naturally  inferred  that  her  ward  did  not  care  to  continue 
the  conversation. 

From  that  day  a  change  came  over  Lady  Valentine. 
The  duchess  noticed  it. 

She  did  not  grow  thin  and  pale,  but  she  lost  a  little  of 
the  brilliant  bloom  that  had  been  so  vivid.  She  lost 
some  of  the  sweet  sunny  laughter  that  had  made  music 
in  the  house;  she  never  now  asked  the  duke  to  go  out 
with  her,  lamented  his  absence,  or  longed  for  his  presence 
in  words.  At  times  the  beautiful  violet  eyes  wooed  him 
to  her  side,  and  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  began  to 
wonder  if  she  could  by  any  possibility  have  been  mis- 
taken. They  were  together  very  often;  they  seemed  to 
have  endless  conversations,  but  she  saw  no  signs  that 
they  were  lovers.  She  resolved  to  say  no  more;  words 
were  quite  useless. 

One  morning,  when  the  duke  came  down  to  breakfast, 
his  mother  seemed  unusually  interested.  She  was  read- 
ing one  of  the  society  journals,  and  said  to  him,  as  he 
took  his  seat : 

"Have  you  heard  of  this  American  beauty,  Ber- 
trand?" 

"  No,"  he  replied.     "  I  do  not  remember  " 

"Listen  to  what  the  'Planet'  sa3S." 

The  "Planet"  was  her  grace's  favorite  paper,  its  go»- 
sip  was  of  the  right  kind  of  people,  its  criticisms  refined, 
its  reports  were  always  corr«ct,  il  contained  news  that 


THE  DUKE'S  SECKET.  175 

»o  other  paper  could  get,  from  sources  no  other  paper 
had.  The  "  Planet "  was  the  favorite  journal  of  the  upper 
classes,  and  no  one  like  it  better  than  the  Duchess  of 
Castlemayne.  She  read  the  following  paragraph,  to 
•which  the  duke  and  Lady  Valentine  paid  great  atten- 
tion : 

"Debut  op  a  Great  Americas  Heibess. 

*'  At  the  drawing-room,  yesterday,  the  great  American 
heiress.  Miss  Glynton,  made  her  debut.  She  was  pre- 
sented by  the  Marchioness  of  "Weedale  ;  her  wonderfid 
beauty,  her  elegant  and  exquisite  toilet,  and  her  superb 
parure  of  diamonds,  attracted  much  attention." 

"  That  speaks  weU  for  America,"  said  the  duchess,  "  now 
see  what  else  they  have  to  say."     She  read  on: 

"  That  the  Duchess  of  Xorthshire  had  given  a  ball  after 
the  drawing-room,  and  there  was  quite  a  crush.  Miss 
Glynton,  the  great  American  heiress,  was  the  great  attrac- 
tion, her  marvelous  beauty  had  taken  the  world  by  sur- 
prise. She  was  not  at  aU  the  American  type,  rather  Eng- 
Hsh  than  otherwise,  but  a  gem  rarely  seen.  The  '  Planet' 
predicts  for  this  wonderfully  beautiful  woman  a  grand 
•areer." 

In  another  part  of  the  same  journal  was  a  short  biog- 
raphy of  Mr,  Hardress  Glynton,  the  American  millionaire, 
•ho  was  also  of  quite  a  different  type  from  the  ordinary 
ene.  He  had  been  most  wonderfully  successful  in  life,  but 
he  had  not  begun  with  the  proverbial  pick  and  hammer; 
he  was  evidently  an  educated  man,  and  there  was  some 
Blight  Tumor  that  he  was  by  birth  an  EngHshman.  He 
had  not,  as  American  millionaires  so  often  do,  '  struck  ile;' 
his  vast  fortune  was  supposed  to  come  from  a  silver  mine. 
He  had  purchased  a  vast  tract  of  land  in  America  which 
he  intended  to  make  into  cattle  farms,  but  it  proved  of  far 
greater  value  than  that.  A  sUver  mine  was  discovered 
upon  it,  and  the  working  of  that  mine  made  him  one  of 
the  richest  men  in  the  world.  He  was  a  widower — "  a 
fortunate  thing  for  him,"  interrupted  the  duchess — and 
had  brought  his  only  daughter  to  spend  a  few  years  in 
Europe. 

Of  the  wonderful  beauty  of  this  only  daughter  enough 
could  not  be  said.  Mr.  Glynton  was  still  in  the  prime  of 
life,  and  it  was  just  possible  that  he  might  marry;  but  vt 


17S  THE  duke's   SECEET. 

any  case,  Miss  Glynton  \fouldbo  one  of  the  richest  heiresses 
in  the  world. 

The  "  Planet "  had  more  than  that  \,o  tell ;  the  million- 
aii'e  bad  purchased  the  magnificent  mansion  in  St.  Jamea 
Park,  built  by  a  rich  foreigner,  a  house  so  large,  so  mag- 
nificent in  its  style  and  decoration  that  royal  palaces  paled 
before  it.  There  was  a  massive  staircase  made  of  silver, 
the  marble  and  jasper  were  of  the  finest;  money  had  been 
as  dross  in  the  building  of  that  superb  mansion— was  as 
dross  to  the  man  who  purchased  it.  Why  he  called  it 
Brook  House  no  one  felt  quite  sure,  nor  did  he  ever  say, 
but  he  had  made  it  one  of  the  most  magnificent  mansions 
in  England.  It  seemed  as  though  the  whole  world  had 
been  searched  for  treasures;  they  came  from  India,  Japan, 
China — from  America,  from  east,  west,  north,  south.  A 
visit  to  Brook  House  was  worth  going  to  England  for,  it 
contained  so  many  treasures.  Mr.  Glynton  hud  been  stay- 
ing in  Paris  while  this  superb  establishment  was  prepared 
for  him,  and  had  only  occupied  it  for  a  few  weeks. 

"  It  reads  like  a  romance,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 

Another  paragraph  was  devoted  to  the  statues  at  Brook 
House  ;  such  horses  and,carriages  had  never  been  equaled ; 
no  money  and  no  trouble  had  been  spared. 

Then  the  "  Planet"  gave  one  of  its  most  amusing  chap- 
ters on  the  subject  of  millionaires  in  general,  and  this  one 
in  particular,  with  many  speculations  as  to  why,  in  the 
order  of  providence,  it  was  appointed  that  one  man  should 
have  so  much  money  he  could  not  spend  one-twentieth 
part  of  it — let  him  Hve  as  he  would — while  others  died  for 
want  of  food.  Then  it  went  on  in  the  pleasant  discussive 
■way  common  to  it  to  describe  what  generally  happened  to 
millionaires,  how  their  daughters  married  the  oldest  titles, 
ending  by  a  description  of  Miss  Glynton,  and  a  prophecy 
that  she  would  reign  as  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  Eng- 
land, 

"  I  should  Uke  to  see  her,"  said  the  duchess.  "  I  must 
say  that  I  admire  really  beautiful  women,  but  there  are  so 
few." 

"  My  dear  mother,"  laughed  the  duke,  "  that  is  not  a 
very  gallant  speech.    I  hope  it  is  not  very  true." 

"My  dear  son,  it  is  true  enough,"  said  the  duchess. 
Long  as  I  have  been  in  the  world,  I  have  not  really  seen 
tnore  than  three  or  four  perfectly  beautiful  women.    There 


THE  duke's  secret.  177 

are  hundreds  and  thousands  of  pretty,  comely,  pleasant 
women,  but  perfect  beauty  of  face,  figure  and  manner,  is 
difficult  to  meet  with.  If  this  Glynton  is  what  the  '  Planet' 
says,  I  should  like  to  see  her. " 

"  You  must  look  to  your  laurels.  Lady  Valentine,"  said 
the  duke. 

"I  am  willing  enough  to  share  them,"  she  replied.  "I 
never  had  any  ambition  for  being  a  beauty." 

"  Then  you  are  a  beauty  without  ambition,"  he  retorted. 

"  Valentine  has  nothing  to  fear,"  said  the  duchess. 
**  Her  style  of  beauty  is  her  own,  and  I  venture  to  say 
that  it  is  unequaled.  Miss  Glynton  will  be  no  rival  of 
hers.  Valentme  has  all  the  freshness  of  a  girl.  Miss 
Glynton  seems  to  have  the  charm  of  a  magnificent  woman- 
hood.    Most  people  prefer  the  brilliant  beauty  of  youth." 

"  I  should  not  care  to  have  the  beauty  of  all  lovely 
women  put  together,"  said  Valentine,  with  a  deep  sigh  ; 
"  I  should  not  know  what  to  do  with  it." 

The  Duchess  answered : 

"Do  with  it,  my  dear  child !  You  maybe  quite  sure  of 
one  thing — beauty  is  one  of  the  great  leading  powers  of 
the  world.  The  '  Planet '  would  not  have  devoted  three 
whole  pages  to  Miss  Glynton  if  she  had  not  had  a  beau- 
tiful face  as  well  as  a  heavy  purse." 

"Are  we  going  to  LadyHurdall's  ball  to-night?"  asked 
the  duke  ;  "  if  so,  we  shall  see  this  famous  beauty.  The 
*  Age '  says  that  she  will  be  there,  and  that  the  whole 
fashionable  world  are  wild  to  behold  her." 

"Yes,  we  will  go,"  said  the  duchess.  I  must  say  that  I 
feel  some  degree  of  ciiriosity.  The  *  Planet '  would  not 
say  all  this  for  nothing." 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

WHAT   THE   "PLAHET"   SAID. 

Bbooe  House  was  one  of  the  wonders  of  London.  Ther« 
is  no  other  place  in  the  wide  world  where  so  much 
luxury  and  magnificence  is  displayed  in  private  houses  as 
in  London — even  where  the  exterior  looks  dark  and  unin- 
viting the  interior  is  splendid.  Brook  House  stood  quit© 
by  itself  ;  it  was  unique — there  was  nothing  like  it  even 
in  London.  One  millionaire  had  built  it,  another  had 
furnished  and  decorated  it;  the  pictures,  statues,  bronzei^ 


178  THE  duke's  SEORIT. 

the  buhl  and  marquetry,  the  priceless  chma,  the  gol<3 
and  silver,  and  thick,  soft  carpet,  the  luxurious  furniture, 
the  exquisite  flowers  made  it  an  earthly  paradise. 

In  the  smallest  of  the  superb  suite  of  drawing-rooms — 
a  beautiful  apartment  known  as  the  rose  room — sat  the 
mistress  of  that  superb  establishment,  the  most  beautiful 
woman  in  Europe,  the  wearer  of  the  purest  diamonds  in 
England,  one  of  the  wealthiest  heiresses  in  the  world. 
She  had  been  reading  the  "Planet,"  and  was  much 
amused  at  the  description  of  herself. 

"  It  could  not  have  been  more  minute,"  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  if  I  had  been  photographed.  1  do  not  think  there 
is  anything  in  America  that  ran  equal  this." 

The  more  she  read  the  more  she  laughed. 

"If  I  am  not  famous  throughout  England  it  will  not 
be  the  'Planet's '  fault "  said  Miss  Glynton. 

No  words  could  have  exaggerated  her  beauty.  It  was 
almost  divine,  it  was  rather  the  beauty  of  a  goddess  th*tn 
of  a  coquette — grand,  serene,  calm.  Words  are  powerless 
to  describe  it ;  she  was  tall  and  slender,  her  figure  so 
perfect  in  its  grace  and  symmetry,  so  gracious  in  its  lines 
and  curves,  so  faultless  that  the  eye  followed  in  amaze- 
ment. 

A  slender,  proud  throat,  a  beautiful  head,  proudly  set, 
sloping  shoidders,  hands  and  arms  that  were  perfect ; 
she  had  golden  hair,  fine,  soft  and  abundant,  with  eyes 
blue  and  clear  as  the  water  of  an  Italian  lake,  the  dark, 
straight  brows  of  a  Greek  goddess.  And  the  loveliest 
red  mouth  that  ever  smiled  or  sighed  ;  gorgeous  beauty, 
such  as  the  old  masters  loved  to  immortalize,  the  com- 
plexion fair  and  pure,  the  sure  sign  of  grand  physical 
health  ;  the  bright,  clear  eyes,  the  fresh,  sweet  lips,  the 
lovely  bloom  on  her  face,  were  all  signs  of  magnificent 
health,  that  in  itself  was  the  greatest  of  all  blessings. 

Yet  that  was,  as  it  were,  only  the  beginning  of  the  won- 
drous beauty  that  had  set  all  Europe  talking.  In  Bome, 
Florence,  Vienna,  Paris  and  London,  she  had  been  pro- 
claimed queen  by  right  of  her  beauty. 

It  was  when  one  came  to  study  that  perfect  face  that 
its  strange,  haunting  loveliness  became  apparent — the 
tenderness,  the  passion  that  was  in  it.  Something 
brooded  In  the  blue  eyes.  Was  n  pain  or  pleasure,  hate 
or  ioY«  ?    Tkej  told  a  story  that  no  one  quite  understood. 


THE  duke's   secret.  Vt^ 

The  CTirres  of  her  lips  -when  she  smiled  were  full  of  some 
sweet  mystery.  They  said  she  had  aU  the  warmth  of  ten- 
derness and  passion  in  her  flower-like  face. 

When  she  was  reading  the  "  Planet,"  a  smile  of  amuse- 
ment curving  her  proud,  sweet  lips,  a  gentleman  entered 
the  room.     She  looked  at  him  smilingly. 

"Uacle  Hardress,  would  you  read  your  destiny  and 
mine  ?  See  what  becomes  of  millionaires  and  their 
daughters.  See  what  a  brilliant  lot  is  prophesied  for  me; 
positively,  if  I  behave  well,  I  may  be  promoted  to  marry 
a  British  peer." 

"  I  wonder,  pet,"  he  said^ "  why  you  dislike  British 
peers  so  much  ?  " 

"I  have  more  respect,  I  believe,  for  British  geese,"  she 
replied.  "  Read  this,  uncle;  I  must  have  been  quite  mis- 
taken. I  really  thought  America  was  the  only  country 
where  peopl  were  interviewed  and  described  in  this 
fashion  at  full  length." 

"My  dear,"  said  the  gentleman,  solemnly,  "that  is  not 
the  only  way  in  which  you  have  misjudged  America." 

He  sat  down  and  took  the  journal  from  her  hands. 

"  Ah,  so  rumor  kindly  whispers  that  I  am  an  English- 
man," he  said,  "  and  that  you  are  more  of  the  English  than 
the  American  type.  Rumor  is  good  at  guessing.  My  dear 
pet " — that  was  his  name  for  her — "  I  must  first  remind  you 
of  one  thing;  you  expressed  a  desire  to  pass  as  my  daughter 
here  in  Europe,  did  you  not  ?" 

"Yes,  certainly  I  did;  I  have  a  reason  for  it." 

"Then  you  must  not  call  me  Uncle  Hardress;  it  will  not 
do  at  all.  Even  one  servant  or  one  person  hearing  it, 
would  at  once  spread  a  rumor  of  something  wrong,  and 
you  know  what  a  suspicious  world  we  hve  in.  You  must 
be  careful " 

"I  will;  I  must  always  say  papa — and  indeed  no  father 
oould  be  so  kind  to  his  child  as  you  are  to  me." 

"No  daughter  could  be  more  loving  or  more  attentive 
than  you  are  to  me,"  he  replied. 

"  I  will  practice  all  to-day,"  she  said.  "  I  will  make  a 
point  of  calling  you  papa  every  time  I  speak  to  you." 

"I  have  often  wondered,"  he  said,  "why  you  choose 
rather  to  be  thought  my  daughter  than  knowL  -o  be  my 
niece." 

**Ii  IM  better  in  <)Tezy  way/'  she  replied,  eTaahre]|7. 


180  THE  DUKE'S  SECRBt. 

"Now  read  what  the  'Planet'  says  about  us,  and  let  ni 
compare  notes." 

He  read  on: 

"He  was  a  fine-looking  man,  this  fortunate  being  who 
owned  a  silver  mine  ;  he  did  not  in  the  least  degree  re- 
semble the  typical  millionaire.  He  was  neither  short  nor 
vulgar;  he  had  no  very  decided  American  accent;  he  spoke 
well,  made  no  mistake  in  his  grammar.  He  was  gentlemanly, 
refined,  and  inteUigent ;  he  was  even  more  than  that— - 
he  was  generous,  benevolent,  and  kind;  he  did  an  im- 
mense deal  of  good  with  his  vast  fortune.  How  many 
people  had  to  thank  him  for  tho  timely  aid  which,  when 
rightly  given,  lead?  to  forturx  *  how  many  orphan  children 
had  he  saved  from  the  street..;  how  many  poor  children 
had  he  rescued  from  poverty  and  educated;  how  many 
voices  were  raised  to  bless  him  whom  his  country  now 
called  Hardress  B.  Glynton. 

"  In  his  face  there  is  a  faint  resemblance  to  that  of  Miss 
Glynton — a  family  likeness  that  is  yet  no  likeness.  He  had 
dark,  keen  eyes,  a  dark  beard,  and  dark  hair.  No  one 
could  be  in  the  same  room  with  him  for  five  minutes  with- 
out seeing  that  his  very  life  was  vnrapped  up  in  that  of  the 
beautiful  woman  who  called  him  papa." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  it,  papa  ?"  she  asked;  "  are  yon 
amused,  angry,  surprised,  indifferent,  or  what  ?" 

"  A  little  of  all,"  he  repHed;  "  we  all  know  how  fierce  is 
the  light  that  beats  upon  a  throne,  so  that  the  penalty  a 
man  like  myself  pays  is  publicity.  We  have  come  to  Lon- 
don for  society,  pet,  and  we  must  bear  what  society  has 
to  say  of  us.  I  never  imagined  that  you  would  make  so 
great  a  sensation  in  this  select  and  exclusive  court, 
although  I  believe  you  to  be  the  most  beautiful  woman  of 
your  time,  my  love." 

She  was  looking  through  the  window  at  the  blue  sky ; 
there  was  a  world  of  romance  and  poetry  in  those  lovely 
eyes — of  mystery  silent  and  sweet  that  no  one  could 
understand. 

"Have  you  thought,"  she  said  "whether  you  shall 
remain  in  England,  or  whether  you  will  return  to  the 
land  of  the  '  Stars  and  Stripes '?  " 

"All  my  future  will  depend  on  yoiirs,"  he  replied. 
"  Bitherto  our  little  bark  has  floated  on  steadily,  and  Wf 


THB  duke's  SE<3RET.  181* 

kaive  aroided  all  shoals  and  rocks,  but  there  is  the  great 
IrooK  of  matrimony  ahead  of  us  yet." 

She  went  over  to  him  and  laid  her  fair  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him. 

"There  will  be  no  such  rock  for  me,"  she  said;  "you 
know  that  I  shall  never  marry." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear,"  he  replied,  with  a  hearty  laugh; 
"  the  handsomest  woman  in  Europe — so  the  papers  say, 
and  I  swear  the  most  lovable  one,  to  talk  of  never  mar- 
rying. I  guarantee  that  you  make  the  best  match  of 
the  day  yet." 

"  No;  I  shall  live  vpith  you  always,  and  take  care  of  you 
when  you  are  iU,  and  together  we  will  make  such  mag- 
nificent plans  for  disposing  of  your  money,  that  the  whole 
world  shall  bless  your  name." 

He  laughed  again. 

"You  amuse  me  always,  pet,  when  you  talk  in  that 
fashion.  You  will  marry,  and  I  should  not  wonder  at  all 
if  you  marry  your  favorite  aversion — a  British  peer." 

"I  am  quite  sure  that  I  shall  not,"  she  answered, 
quickly,  with  a  hot  flush  on  her  fair  face.  "  We  will  not 
quarrel,  papa;  time  will  show  which  is  right." 

"  Quarrel,  my  beautiful  darling,"  cried  the  millionaire, 
"  nay,  that  we  shall  never  do ;  but  I  wonder  often  what 
gives  you  this  tinge  of  melancholy,  this  strange  idea  about 
not  marrying." 

"  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  think  that  the  only  happy 
life  is  the  married  life,"  she  repKed. 

"  But  that  is  unnatural,"  he  cried,  "  every  girl  wants,  or 
ought  to  want,  to  get  married." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  gently,  "  that  is  just  the  mistake.  I 
am  not  a  girl,  you  know,  papa,  with  an  untried  life  before 
me.  I  am  a  woman  with  most  bitter  experience:  to  me 
the  haven  of  rest  is — not  marriage." 

The  clear  hght  glowed  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and  over 
her  face  an  expression  that  always  bewildered  him.  He 
bent  down  and  kissed  the  beautiful  face  raised  to 
him. 

"  You  shall  be  married  or  single,"  he  said,  "  or  jual 
what  you  will ;  the  only  thing  I  want  is  to  see  you  happy, 
pet.  I  have  not  another  wish  on  earth.  If  a  British  peer 
should  take  your  fancy  and  you  marry  him,  you  vill  make 
tiCa  tht  wsalthiest  and  happiest  of  peers,    li  yoa  wish  t<> 


182  THE  duke's  secret. 

Bpend  the  rest  of  jour  life  with  me,  I  will  l»e  father, 
mother,  and  everything  else  to  you.  Be  happy;  that  is  all 
I  wish.  They  say  you  are  the  best- dressed  woman  in 
London,  and  that  you  wear  the  finest  diamonds  ;  is  there 
anything  else  you  want  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered ;  "  you  have  been  so  liberal,  so 
generous,  so  munificent  to  me,  I  do  not  believe  that  I  have 
a  wish  unfulfilled  in  the  wide  world — not  one." 

"  That  is  right,  pet ;  now  let  us  leave  the  future  for 
the  present  Have  you  looked  through  your  invitation 
cards  ?    Where  are  you  going  ?  " 

"I  shall  go  first  to  Mrs.  Grey's  ;  she  made  me  promise. 
Then  I  thought  of  going  to  Lady  Hurdale's.  I  like  her  ; 
she  is  a  nice,  unafiected  woman." 

"  That  is  well,"  said  Mr.  Glynton.  "  I  shall  arrange  my 
day  accordingly.  Pet,  order  some  dozen  copies  of  the 
*  Planet.'  We  will  send  them  to  our  American  friends. 
I  wonder  what  John  B.  Hutton  will  say  ?'* 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THX  BXLIiB  or  THB  BALL. 

There  was  not  a  more  luxuriously  furnished  room  in 
England  than  the  dressing-room  of  the  great  heiress, 
Miss  Glynton.  She  stood  there  now  herself,  the  most 
beautiful  object  where  all  was  beautiful.  The  wealth  of 
a  nation  seemed  to  have  been  lavished  there;  the  carpet 
was  of  velvet  pile,  so  thick  and  soft,  it  was  a  luxury  even 
to  walk  over  it;  the  hangings  were  all  of  white  silk,  re- 
lieved by  golden  fringe;  the  few  pictures  that  hung  on 
the  walls  were  of  inestimable  value.  A  marble  Flora 
stood  encircled  by  crimson  flowers;  the  toilet  table  was 
one  mass  of  costly  glass  and  silver.  A  few  flowers  per- 
fumed the  air.  One  caught  glimpses  of  velvet  from 
Genoa,  of  silk  from  Lyons,  of  laces  worth  a  king's  ransom, 
of  jewels  fitted  for  an  empress.  No  luxury  that  women 
love  was  absent  from  the  room.  She  was  ready  dressed 
for  the  ball;  and  some  caprice  had  induced  her  to  dress 
with  imusual  elegance.  Mr,  Glynton  was  right  when  he 
called  her  the  best-dressed  woman  in  London;  she  would 
have  made  any  dress  beautiful.  To-night  she  wore  & 
pQBtume  of  wlwte  y«lyet  and  whit«  filS,  traa»«scl  witfc 


THE  duke's  SECBIT.  183 

beautiful  sprays  of  hawthorn,  and  with  it  she  wor«  a 
par  lire  of  diamonds. 

The  beautiful  head  with  its  hawthorn  crown,  in  which 
diamonds  were  skillfully  interwoven,  the  rich  brown  hair, 
with  its  gleam  of  gold  ;  the  grand  face,  the  blue  eyes,  with 
iheir  slumbering  passion  and  mystery  ;  the  whole  neck 
and  shoulders  shining  like  white  satin,  the  hands  and  arms 
fair  as  a  sculptor's  dream,  made  up  a  picture  not  to  be  for- 
gotten. The  exquisite  dress  fell  in  the  most  graceful  folds 
around  her.  A  woman  to  drive  men  mad  with  her  superb, 
passionate  beauty,  yet  never  looking  hke  a  woman  who  was 
to  be  wooed  and  won. 

"  You  have  forgotten  nothing,  Lucy  ?"  said  Miss  Glyn- 
ton,  and  the  maid  took  from  the  toilet  table  two  tiny, 
dainty  rosettes — a  twist  of  hawthorn  with  a  diamond  in 
each.  Miss  Glynton  held  out  a  beautiful  foot,  perfect  in 
shape,  with  dainty  slippers  that  matched  her  dress. 

"  I  have  forgotten  to  stitch  on  these  rosettes,"  she  said. 

While  Lucy  was  busy  over  it.  Miss  Glynton  stood  quite 
still,  a  fire  burning  in  the  silver  grate,  and  she  was  watch- 
ing the  flame  ;  suddenly  the  grand  calm  of  her  beautiful 
statuesque  face  was  broken,  a  sudden  flame  Ut  up  the 
splendor  of  her  eyes,  her  red  mouth  quivered. 

"  It  might  be  to-night,"  she  said  to  herself — "  and  if  it 
be,  will  the  Heavens  faU  ?" 

There  was  something  half  of  impatience,  half  of  scorn  in 
the  gesture  with  which  she  turned  from  the  fire  and  took 
the  dainty  wrapper  that  the  maid  held. 

•"  To-night  or  to-morrow,  this  year  or  next,  what  will  it 
matter  ?" 

She  stood  for  a  few  minutes  before  the  great  mirror 
and  looked  earnestly  at  her  beautiful  reflection.  It  was 
the  gaze  of  a  woman  measuring  her  own  power.  She 
looked  long  and  earnestly,  and  the  smile  that  came  over 
her  face  was  one  of  security. 

Mr.  Glynton  was  waiting  for  her. 

He  gave  one  keen,  comprehensive  glance  at  her  toilet. 

"It  is  perfect,"  he  said.  "No  one  has  your  taste  ic 
dressing,  pet, '   and  then  they  went  off  to  the  ball. 

It  was  wonderful  to  see  the  zest  with  which  the  mil- 
lionaire entered  the  gayeties  of  the  great  world — balls, 
dinner  parties,  concerts,  all  came  alike  to  him }  he  ea- 


184  THB  DUKX'S  SIOSIT. 

joyed  them  all  with  the  zest  of  youth ;  it  was  for  iliifl 
that  he  came  to  Europe — why  not  enjoy  it  ? 

He  had  not  decidedly  said  to  himself  that  he  would  not 
marry  ;  he  left  the  matter  to  chance  ;  if  some  high-born, 
beautiful  woman  fell  in  love  with  him,  or  insisted  on  mar- 
rying him,  why,  of  course  he  must  yield,  and  it  was  very 
pleasant — so  he  told  himself — to  be  sought  after  and  ad- 
mired. He  understood  why  grand  ladies  with  marriageable 
daughters  sent  him  such  urgent  invitations,  and  were  so 
eager  to  accept  his.  He  was  not  an  old  man — hardly  in  the 
prime  of  life — and  he  knew  that  he  would  be  considered 
one  of  the  best  matches  in  the  land;  and  that  these  patri- 
cian matrons  would  give  the  fairest  and  youngest  of  their 
daughters  to  him,  the  famous  millionaire.  Therefore  he 
enjoyed  balls  and  parties  with  the  zest  of  a  young  man. 

"  If  ever  I  marry,"  he  would  say  at  times,  to  Miss  Glyn- 
ton,  "it  will  make  no  difference  to  you;  you  shall  always 
have  a  fortune  that  a  duke  might  envy." 

She  was  quite  willing;  the  fact  of  his  marriage  could 
not  in  the  least  degree  have  displeased  her.  She  loved 
him  well  enough  to  think  of  his  happiness  before  anything 
else. 

"  I  believe,"  she  said,  with  a  charming  smile,  "  that  you 
enjoy  these  things  better  than  I  do." 

"It  is  quite  possible,"  he  said,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"  When  the  Duchess  of  Queenom  began  to  tell  me  yester- 
day, that  her  daughter  Lady  Almira  adored  America  and 
the  Americans,  I  enjoyed  it.  I  have  never  been  in  the 
great  world  before,  but  it  seems  to  me  I  have  a  perfect 
imderstanding  of  the  ways  of  these  fine  ladies,  and  they 
tunuse  me.  I  see  through  them  so  plainly.  Then  I  really 
enjoy  all  the  gayeties;  they  are  new  to  me — at  least  with 
this  class  of  people." 

Then  the  carriage  stopped,  and  after  some  minutes  of 
patient  waiting  Mr.  and  Miss  Glynton  found  themselves 
bowing  to  Lady  Teesdale,  who,  magnificently  attired, 
stood  in  the  large  drawing-room  to  receive  her  guests. 
She  was  most  courteous  and  bland  to  the  great  luillionaire 
— so  dehghted  to  see  him — thought  it  was  so  kind  of  him 
to  attend  her  ball;  he  must  be  so  besieged  with  invita- 
tions. She  was  the  more  delighted  as  she  had  promised 
■o  many  introductions  to  him. 
^   She  w«0  equally  delighted  to  see  Miss  Glynton.    Th0 


THB  duke's  SHOBIT.  185 

three  talked  for  some  few  minutes,  and  then  they  passed 
on  to  make  room  for  other  distinguished  guests.  In  the 
crowded  ball-room,  where  that  night  the  most  beautiful 
of  women  were  gathered,  Miss  Grlynton  was  the  belle. 
People  were  raving  about  her;  it  was  not  the  ordinary 
style  of  ball-room  beauty,  dashing  or  fast ;  the  woman 
was  a  goddess  or  queen  of  beauty,  and  men  worshipped 
her  as  such.  The  mystery  and  fashion  of  her  beauty 
attracted  them;  the  calm  of  the  grand  face,  contrasting 
with  the  eloquence  and  passion  of  the  blue  eyes,  be- 
wildered them. 

There  was  the  usual  class  of  people  present — a  royal 
duke  who  seldom  missed  one  of  Lady  Teesdale's  balls,  an 
Austrian  prince  on  his  travels,  ttn  Austrian  arch-duke, 
German  princes,  French  seigneurs,  British  peers,  from 
his  grace  the  Duke  of  Buckland  to  the  baronet  whose 
title  died  with  him.  The  "  Guards  "  were  well  represented 
and  every  celebrity  of  London  of  a  certain  class  was 
there.  The  beautiful  heiress  made  a  great  sensation. 
Over  a  young  girl  they  would  have  spoken  out  their 
thoughts,  called  her  beautiful  or  not  its  suited  their  tastes; 
but  of  this  woman  they  said  little;  she  seemed  above 
ordinary  criticism,  above  the  ordinary  rules  by  which  the 
fairest  women  are  judged. 

They  admired  her,  but  it  was  not  in  a  familiar  fashion; 
there  was  something  in  her  grand  calm  beauty  that  awed 
and  impressed  even  while  it  attracted;  every  one  con- 
trived to  see  her,  the  ladies  admired  her  as  much  as  the 
gentlemen.  No  one  had  a  word  against  her;  she  was 
neither  vain,  coquettish  or  given  to  flirting;  she  received 
all  the  homage  offered  to  her  with  grand,  serene  calm, 
yet  there  was  something'in  her  eyes  that  made  the  hearts 
of  men  beat  faster  as  they  looked  at  her — something  more 
than  beauty. 

She  became  at  once  the  center  of  attraction. 

The  English  royal  duke  asked  for  an  introduction  and  a 
dance;  the  Austrian  the  same;  and  many,  who  knew  of 
the  lady's  vast  wealth,  thought  it  not  at  all  unlikely  that 
the  American  heiress  might  become  a  princess  herself. 

But  no  homage  flattered  her;  peers  and  princes  could 
gay  what  they  would. 

As  she  stood  up  for  the  second  dance,  every  eye  in  the 
room  was  upon  h«r;  the  great  chaadelier  above  her  head 


18$  THE  duke's  secret. 

poured  down  a  flood  of  golden  light,  whicli  fell  full  on 
the  fair,  grand  face,  the  costly  white  dress  and  priceless 
gems.  Hor  beauty  was  startling  as  she  stood  there,  the 
duke  talking  to  her,  she  listening  with  a  half  smile  on 
her  face. 

Then  Uarry  Bellairs,  son  and  heir  of  Sir  Tracy  Bellairs, 
known  as  the  "Handsome  Guardsman,"  came  to  remind 
her  that  the  next  dance  was  hia 

They  walked  through  the  ball-room,  the  long  suite  of 
reception  rooms  were  thrown  open  and  brilliantly  lighted; 
they  went  into  the  large  drawing-room  where  one  of  Gor- 
goni's  finest  pictures  hung;  Handsome  Harry  considered 
that  he  was  a  fine  judge  of  paintings,  and  had  taken  Miss 
Glynton  to  see  this,  which  was  considered  the  gem  of  the 
collection. 

Miss  Glynton  had  more  than  the  average  taste  for  fine 
arts.  She  had  seen  some  of  the  finest  galleries  in  Europe, 
and  could  discourse  most  entei-tainingly  on  the  subject  of 
pictures. 

While  they  stood  before  it,  Miss  Glynton  knew  that  a 
fresh  party  of  guests  had  arrived.  The  sweet  silvery 
sound  of  a  girl's  voice  reached  her  ear;  at  the  same 
moment  Handsome  Harry  turned  suddenly  and  looked 
through  the  long  suite  of  rooms.  Miss  Glynton  saw  the 
enijy  of  two  ladies,  accompanied  by  a  gentleman.  Then 
came  a  sigh  of  relief  from  the  handsome  guardsman. 

"You  are  a  judge  of  pictures,  Mis3  Glynton,"  he  said; 
"so  you  should  be  of  the  beauty  of  the  human  face;  here 
is  ouo  I  think  perfection." 

She  looked  down  the  room  and  saw  a  tall,  beautiful  girl 
in  a  white  dress  trimmed  with  leaves.  She  smiled  as  her 
eyes  fell  on  the  fair  face. 

"  Who  is  it?"  she  asked,  kindly. 

"  The  Lady  Valentine  Arden,"  he  replied. 

"You  forget  that  I  am  a  novice  in  London  society,**  she 
said.  "  Who  is  Lady  "Valentine  Arden  ?  She  is  exqrds- 
itely  lovely,  but  who  is  she?" 

"  The  only  daughter  and  heiress  of  the  Earl  of  Arden," 
he  answered  ;  "  her  father  has  been  an  invalid  for  many 
years,  and  lives  at  Nice — he  sent  bis  daughter  to  Eng- 
land ;  she  has  soon  become  one  of  the  idols  of  the  fash- 
ionable world.  Look  at  her  face.  Have  you  seen  aB.T« 
thing  more  b«autif  ul  ?  " 


THE  duee's  segbet.  187 

CHAPTEE   XXXL 

MISS    aLYNTON    INTEBESTED. 

**  Shb  is  very  beautiful,"  said  Miss  Glyton  thoughtfully, 
and  then  she  smiled  to  herself  as  she  thought  that  cer- 
tainly handsome  Harry  Bellairs  wore  his  heart  on  his 
sleeve.  If  he  had  told  her  a  thousand  times  over  that  he 
was  deeply  in  love  with  Lady  Valentine  Arden,  it  would 
not  have  been  plainer  to  her  than  it  was  now. 

"  How  fresh  and  young  she  looks,"  said  Miss  Glynton. 
"'  I  think  you  are  quite  right.  Captain  Bellairs,  I  have 
seen  nothing  like  her  in  Londo*'. 

"  That  is  what  I  like,  but  selr'om  hear,"  he  cried,  "  one 
beautiful  woman  praising  ano+her.  Our  rival  beauties 
are — or  have  been — Mrs.  Trelawney  and  Mrs.  Dulwich  ; 
they  are  very  gushing  to  each  other ;  they  never  meet 
without  embraces  and  very  loving  words,  yet  they  never 
admire  each  other.  Mrs.  Dulwich  finds  a  hundred  faults 
with  Mrs.  Trelawney,  which  no  one  else  ever  sees,  and 
vice  versa." 

"  It  is  a  difficult  matter,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  smiHng  ; 
"  these  two  ladies  are  rival  beauties  ;  Lady  Valentino 
Arden  and  myself  could  never  be  rivals." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

"  She  must  be  some  years  younger  than  I  am,"  was  the 
answer,  "  and  I  do  not  suppose  the  same  kind  of  peopl* 
would  ever  like  us." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  replied. 

Then  Miss  Glynton  startled  him  by  turning  to  him 
quite  suddenly. 

"  Who  are  that  lady  and  gentleman  with  Lady  Valen- 
tine?" 

"The  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,"  he  repHed. 

Then  he  looked  up  again  in  utmost  wonder,  for  a  sud- 
den and  terrible  shock  seemed  to  have  passefl  over  the 
beautiful  woman  at  his  side.  For  one  half  moment  he 
thought  she  would  fall  dead  at  his  feet ;  her  face  became 
very  white,  the  jeweled  fan  fell  from  her  hands,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  her  whole  frame  trembled  from  head 
to  foot,  swayed  for  a  moment  as  though  she  would  falii 
iad  then  became  rigidly  erect 


188  THE  duke's  secret. 

He  saw  that  she  clutched  the  back  of  a  chair  that  stood 
near  to  save  herself  from  falling. 

He  looked  at  her  in  the  utmost  alarm;  but  in  one  minute 
she  had  recovered  herself — before  he  had  time  io  note 
what  had  happened,  she  was  herself  again. 

"  Are  you  ill,  Miss  Glynton  ?  "  he  cried,  faintly.  "  Pray 
let  me  get  you  a  chair,  while  I  go  for  a  glass  of  wine." 

"  No,"  she  said  in  a  quiet,  low  voice,  "  I  am  well  now, 
do  not  leave  me." 

But  she  spoke  with  white,  quivering  lips.  She  was  her- 
self again — upright,  dignified,  and  graceful;  but  the  color 
did  not  return  to  her  face,  and  he  looked  anxiously  at  her. 
In  reply  to  his  look,  for  he  said  no  words,  she  said  : 

"  I  assure  you  that  I  do  not  even  need  a  glass  of  water." 

"  I  would  beHeve  you.  Miss  Glynton,"  he  said ;  "  if 
there  was  any  color  in  your  face  ;  but  while  you  look  so 
white,  I  really  can  not." 

She  tried  to  smile,  but  he  saw  that  her  lips  quivered. 

"I  have  had  the  same  pain  before,"  she  said;  "  it  is  like 
a  sharp,  sudden  stab  through  the  heart,  and  dies  away 
slowly.  I  should  imagine  that  many  people,  even  the 
strongest,  have  it." 

"Are  you  strong?"  he  asked. 

And  his  manner  was  so  gentle  and  so  kind  it  pleased 
her. 

"  Yas,"  she  replied,  "perfectly  strong." 

By  that  time  he  had  picked  up  the  fan  and  she  had 
taken  it.  She  laid  the  feathers  against  her  white  breast, 
and  no  stir  of  the  rich  plumage  told  of  the  emotion 
within. 

"  I  was  asking  you  who  were  Lady  Valentine's  compan- 
ions ?"  she  said. 

And  again  his  longing,  lingering  glance  went  to  the 
fair  young  face. 

"  The  Duke  and  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,"  he  re- 
peated. 

And  at  this  time,  though  a  cold  shudder  seemed  to  pass 
over  the  beautiful  figure,  she  neither  trembled  nor  shrunk. 

"  Lady  Valentine  is  the  ward  or  protegee  of  the  duch- 
ess," be  continued;  "or  rather,  if  I  would  express  myself 
in  the  language  of  tociety,  I  should  say  that  the  duchesi 
chaperons  her." 


THE  dues' S  SEGBET.  189 

•*  Does  she  live  with  them  ?"  asked  Misa  Glynton,  in  a 
somewhat  disconnected  fashion. 

"  Yes  ;  the  family  are  staying  at  Mayne  House  now. 
She  is  to  remain  with  them,  I  beheve,  some  years.  I,  for 
one,  hope  it  is  so." 

There  was  no  mistaking  the  fervor  of  his  voice.  Miss 
Glynton  smiled  lightly  as  she  thought  to  herself  how 
plainly  his  secret  was  read. 

"  And  the  duke,"  she  said,  "  is  he  married  ?" 

There  was  a  hush  in  her  voice,  a  solemnity,  as  though 
she  was  speaking  in  the  shadow  of  a  cathedral  aisle. 

"  Married  ?  Oh,  no,"  he  replied.  "  People  call  him  a 
woman-hater.     I  do  not  know  why." 

"  Because  he  hates  women,  I  should  imagine,"  she  re- 
pHed;  but  the  light  in  her  eyes,  their  troubled,  passion- 
ate beauty  belied  the  lightness  of  her  words. 

"  Why  he  should  hate  them,  I  do  not  know.  A  man  had 
far  better  hate  the  flowers  and  the  sunlight  than  hate 
women.  The  world  would  be  a  lonely  desert  without 
them." 

"  Has  some  woman  been  cruel  to  him  do  you  think  ?  " 
she  asked,  and  there  was  still  the  same  solemn  hush  about 
her  voice. 

"  I  have  never  heard  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  have  always 
heard  that  he  disliked  and  avoided  the  society  of  ladies." 

"  There  must  be  some  reason  for  it,"  she  repeated. 

"  There  may  be,  but,  if  so,  he  keeps  it  entirely  to  him- 
self.    I  am  quite  sure  no  one  knows  it." 

"  Is  he  nked  ?  "  she  asked,  abruptly;   " is  he  popular ? " 

"  The  Duke  of  Castlemayne  ?  Yes,  I  should  say  one  of 
the  most  popular  men  in  England.  I  have  never  met 
man,  woman  or  child  who  did  not  like  him.  He  is  a  mag- 
nificent man,  but  every  one  is  puzzled  that  he  neither 
flirts,  falls  in  love  nor  marries  like  other  men." 

"  It  is  strange,"  she  says,  with  the  light  deepening  in 
those  splendid  eyes. 

Handsome  Harry,  finding  that  the  topic  pleased  her, 
went  on: 

*'  The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  is  considered  the  hand- 
somest, proudest,  most  haughty,  and  altogether  the  most 
magnificent  matron  in  England.  You  see  what  a  superb 
woman  she  is." 

Again  that  singular  shudder  came  over  Miss  Glynton, 


190  THE  duke's   secret. 

as  though  a  cold  wind  had  rushed  by.  She  looked  in  th« 
direction  he  had  indicated,  and  her  eyes  fell  on  the  grand 
beauty  which,  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  had  been  the 
admiration  of  aU  England.  Again  the  light  deepened  in 
her  eyes. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  slowly;  "  she  is  very  grand,  very  beauti- 
ful and  stately,  but  she  looks  hard  and  cold." 

"  She  is  that;  no  one  harder,  or  colder,  or  more  ambi- 
tious. You  may  imagine.  Miss  Glynton,  what  a  mortifica- 
tion it  must  be  to  her  that  her  son  does  not  marry." 

"It  may  be  a  sorrow,"  said  Miss  Glynton;  "  but  why 
should  it  be  a  mortification  ?" 

"  I  am  afraid  you  will  think  me  a  gossip,"  he  said;  "  but 
i  Bee  the  subject  interests  you,  and  all  London  society 
knows  what  I  am  telHng  you.  To  the  Ducheea  of  Castle- 
mayne  her  son's  dislike  to  ladies  and  aversion  to  marriage 
are  the  most  terrible  troubles  in  the  world." 

"  But  why  ?"  persisted  IVIiss  Glynton.     "  Why  ?" 

"  I  will  tell  you.  Most  beautiful  women  are  rivals,  and 
when  she  was  quite  young  the  duchess  had  a  great  rival  in 
the  present  Lady  Everleigh  ;  they  married  distant  kins- 
men, and  it  so  happens  that  if  the  duke  dies  without  a  son 
and  heir  to  succeed  him,  that  the  son  of  Lady  Everleigh 
win  take  his  place,  and  the  knowledge  of  this  is  gall  and 
wormwood  to  the  proud  duchess.  She  detests  Lady  Ever- 
leigh, but — you  are  ill  again." 

She  stirred  the  perfumed  air  with  her  fan. 

"  No  ;  I  am  not ;  this  room  is  much  cooler  than  tha 
drawing-room.     I  am  quite  well." 

Yet  she  averted  her  face  lest  he  should  see  its  trembling 
and  pallor. 

"For  many  years  past,"  he  continued,  "the  whole  fash- 
ionable world  lias  been  interested  in  this  matter.  Lately 
the  interest  has  deepened  because  the  duchess  has  seemed 
so  bitter  against  Lady  Everleigh,  and  because  the  duke 
has  been  more  attentive  to  Lady  Arden  than  he  has  ever 
been  to  any  one  else. 

Society  watches  the  struggle  with  very  interested  and 
Tery  amused  eyes." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath  that  died  on  her  lips  like  a  sigh. 

"I  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  see,  and  the 
duehess  fears  that  Lady  Everleigh  will  lie  the  wijuier  ix 
i^  rae«," 


*HE  duke's  secret.  191 

There  was  something  iu  her  voice  that  startled  him  ; 
ke  did  not  know  whether  it  was  triumph,  or  simple 
wonder,  but  it  made  him  look  at  her  more  attentively 
than  he  had  done  before.  What  passion  lay  under  that 
grand  calm,  shone  in  the  blue  eyes,  and  quivered  in  the 
musical  voice. 

"  Yes,  she  has  evidently  feared  that  for  some  time," 
said  Handsome  Harry.  Why  does  not  the  duke  marry 
as  aU  other  dukes  do  ?  But  I  fancy  there  is  .more  chance 
of  it  now  than  there  ever  has  been." 

Her  blue  eyes  sought  his,  and  it  seemed  to  him  that 
her  very  glance  was  a  command. 

"  Why  now  ?  "  she  asked. 

"He  has  seemed  lately  to  pay  so  much  attention  to 
Lady  Valentine.  I  knew  that  lately  the  duchess  was  in 
very  high  spirits,  and  seemed  under  the  impression  that 
there  was  something  between  the  duke  and  her  ward. 
But  I  do  not  think  so.  He  is  very  kind  and  attentive  to 
her,  naturally  enough;  she  is  his  mother's  ward.  I  have 
seen  nothing  like  love  on  his  side.  He  is  a  very  handsome 
man.     Any  girl  might  like  him. 

She  was  watching  the  little  group  with  a  curious,  in- 
tent gaze,  so  silently  that  he  could  have  imagined  she 
had  ceased  to  breathe — a  long,  steady,  unfaltering  gaze. 
His  eyes  following  hers,  admitted  that  it  was  a  brilliant 
group  to  watch.  The  duchess  and  Lady  Teesdale  were 
talking.  Lady  Valentine  and  the  duke  stood  together 
before  a  magnificent  jardiniere,  and  she  was  evidently 
admiring  the  superb  hyacinths  it  contained. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  duke  ?"  asked  the  handsome 
guardsman,  for  he  saw  that  her  eyes  lingered  longest  and 
most  earnestly  on  him. 

She  paused  for  a  few  minutes,  evidently  afraid  to  trust 
herself;  th«en  she  said,  with  that  strange  thrill  of  passion 
in  her  voice : 

"  What  should  I  think  of  him  ?  He  is  very  handsome 
and  very  aristocratic;  but  I  should  say  that  he  stands  in 
awe  of  her  grace,  the  duchess." 

Captain  Bellairs  laughed. 

"  Burnor  says  so,  and  adds  that  he  has  been  ia  leading" 
Btrings  all  his  life" 

She  turned  awt^. 


192  THE  duke's  SEOBEX. 

"  We  Lave  given  time  enough  to  them,"  she  continued. 
"Show  me  some  more  pictures,  Captain  Bellairs." 

Nor  would  she  renew  the  conversation.  It  was  to  be 
observed  after  that,  that  when  people  talked  of  the  great 
American  beauty  and  heiress,  the  handsome  guardsman 
'#08  wonderfully  silent. 

CHAPTER  XXXn. 

A  FAMILIAB  FACB. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  was  always  seen  at  her  best 
at  one  of  these  grand  balls;  her  very  presence  gave  an  air 
of  distinction  to  the  rooms;  then  her  courtly  grace  and  dis- 
tinguished manner  completed  the  charms.  Every  ball- 
giving  lady  made  an  eifort  to  get  the  duchess  to  her  ball, 
but  few  succeeded,  but  those  few  made  a  great  success. 
No  member  of  the  royal  family  was  more  populai-,  more 
sougnt  after,  or  more  honored  than  the  Duchess  of  Castle- 
mayne. 

Lady  Teesdale  had  a  few  minutes  leisure ;  most  of  her 
guests  had  arrived,  most  of  them  were  happily  engaged, 
and  she  enthroned  herself  with  the  duchess  on  a  sofa  of 
crimson  velvet.  The  duke,  to  the  wonder  of  all  beholderi, 
had  tuken  Lady  Valentine  to  join  the  quadrille. 

The  duchess  opened  the  conversation  by  asking: 

"  Have  you  the  Americans  here  to-night?" 

"  You  mean  Mr.  and  Miss  Glynton  ?  Yes;  they  are  hart. 
I  may  think  myself  honored  by  their  coming;  I  have  been 
told  their  invitations  are  so  numerous  that  it  takes  their 
secretary  many  hours  each  day  to  answer  them." 

"  Probably,"  said  her  grace,  with  a  quiet  smile.  "  I 
suppose  there  are  few  men  in  Enj^^land  with  more  money." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  Lady  Teesdale,  "  that  he  stands 
alone ! " 

"  What  is  the  lady  like  ?  "  asked  the  duchess.  ".  li 
the  'Planet'  may  be  believed,  she  is  something  quite 
above  ordinary  beauties." 

"  You  will  see  for  yourself,"  said  Lady  Teesdale.  "  She 
is  here  this  evening,  and  I  must  confess  that  in  all  my  life 
I  have  seen  no  creature  one-half  so  beautiful.  Would  you 
like  me  to  introduce  her  to  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  see  what  she  is  like  ^si/'  said  her  grace,  ea«- 
tioualj. 


THE  DUEE*S  SECRET.  193 

Presently,  among  the  fair  and  glittering  throng,  she 
«aw  one  lady  somewhat  taller  and  more  stately  than  the 
rest,  with  a  magnificent  face  and  figure,  and  a  superb 
dress  of  white  velvet  and  silk,  exquisitely  trimmed  with 
hawthorn  and  a  parure  of  diamonds  that  were  priceless. 
She  moved  with  such  grace  and  elegance,  she  was  so  per- 
fect in  harmony  and  beauty,  that  the  Duchess  of  Castle- 
mayne  looked  after  her  in  wonder. 

"  Who  is  that  magnificent  woman  in  the  white  velvet." 
she  said,  "  with  Captain  Bellairs  ?  " 

'*  That  is  the  American  beauty,"  repHed  Lady  Teesdale 
— ^just  a  little  delighted  that  anything  at  her  balls  should 
attract  the  duchess — "  Miss  Glynton.  She  looks  like  an 
empress,  does  she  not  ?  " 

"  There  are  few  empresses,  I  think,  who  have  had  a 
face  or  fortune  like  that.    Will  you  introduce  her  to  me  ?** 

Lady  Teesdale  looked  delighted. 

"Certainly;  and  I  assure  jon  that  you  will  admire  her 
much  more  when  you  know  her  than  you  do  now — her 
mind  is  as  charming  as  her  face." 

"The  duchess  looked  thoughtfully  at  the  brilliant 
American. 

"I  must  have  seen  her  before,"  she  said;  "her  face  is 
quite  familiar  to  me,  yet  I  can  not  remember  where." 

"  It  is  more  than  probable,"  said  Lady  Teesdale,  "  that 
you  have  seen  her  in  the  Kow  or  at  £he  opera." 

"  No ;  I  can  not  remember  that.  Now  I  look  longer  at 
her  I  fancy  that  I  am  mistaken.  I  have  seen  a  face  like 
hers,  but  where  I  can  not  recall.  But  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  your  new  beauty,  and  I  should  like  to  know  her." 

One  more  faint  hope  crossed  her  mind.  Her  son  was, 
ehe  believed,  the  most  fastidious  of  men;  even  with  the 
fresh,  fair  young  loveliness  of  Lady  Valentine  he  had 
failed  to  love,  perhaps  with  the  magnificent  beauty  of 
this  grand  woman  he  might  be  charmed.  It  would  suit 
him,  perhaps  because  it  was  rather  of  a  goddess  than  of 
a  woman.  It  was  only  a  solitary  hope — still  it  entered 
her  heart. 

It  was  nearly  half  an  hour  after  that  expressed  wish 
of  her  grace  before  Lady  Teesdale  could  find  her  way 
to  the  LGa.ity's  side.  Then  she  found  Miss  Glynton  sur- 
roui;ded  by  admirers^  and  she  had  some  difficulty  i& 
speaking;  to  her. 


Id4  THE  DtTK£'s  nmaxt, 

"  The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  is  very  anxious  for  atk 
introduction  to  you,  Miss  Glynton,"  she  said. 

The  beautiful  woman  flung  back  her  fair  head  with  a 
gesture  that  made  the  light  quiver  in  her  diamonds  ;  then 
she  paused  for  a  moment  to  recover  herself. 

"  The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,"  she  repeated.  "  Yes  ; 
certainly ;  it  will  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me  to  know 
her,"  she  repUed,  hastily.  "  What  a  success  your  ball  is, 
Lady  Teesdalej" 

"  Thanks  to  you,"  said  the  hostess,  gracefully.  "  You 
make  every  place  brilliant." 

Lady  Teesdale  was  gifted  with  that  bland,  quiet  cour- 
tesy which  makes  life  all  grace.  As  she  led  the  beautiful 
American  through  the  long  suite  of  rooms  to  where  the 
duchess  sat  enthroned,  she  talked  in  her  brightest  style 
to  her ;  but  if  she  had  looked  more  closely  she  would 
have  seen  that  the  brilliant  face  had  lost  some  of  its 
bloom,  and  that  there  was  a  troubled  look  in  the  dark 
blue  eyes  as  when  the  waters  of  an  Italian  lake  are 
stirred. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne — in  her  magnificent  dress 
of  rich  mauve  velvet,  pointed  lace  and  pearls — looked 
like  an  empress;  the  years  had  passed  hghtly  over  her 
head;  she  was  handsome,  erect  and  stately,  with  the  royal 
manner  and  grace  of  a  queen.  She  smiled  as  Lady  Tees- 
dale  led  the  beautiful  heiress  to  her — smiled  with  corte- 
ous  grace  and  sweetness. 

"  I  am  delighted  to  meet  you,"  she  said,  in  her  most 
charming  manner.  "  I  have  many  American  friends,  and 
I  shall  be  happy  to  number  you  among  them." 

Then  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  looked  with  a  little 
surprise,  for  the  brilliant  face  had  grown  paler,  and  for 
some  few  seconds  the  troubled  light  of  the  blue  eyes  be- 
wildered her.  Then  Miss  Glynton  became  at  once  a 
model  of  grace  and  elegance;  answered  her  grace  in  the 
same  way  in  which  she  spoke;  accepted  an  invitation  to 
the  ball  at  Mayne  House,  and  delighted  the  duchess  by 
her  courtesy,  grace  and  refinement. 

"You  like  England,  Miss  Glynton,"  she  said.  "Should 
you  like  to  live  here  always,  or  have  you  a  great  affection 
for  America  ?'* 

"I  love  England  best,"  she  replied,  "  I  think  aU  Ameri- 
cans have  a  great  love  for  the  little  island  home." 


VIS  l>t7EE*8  SECBIf.  195 

r 

"I  have  always  heard  so,"  said  the  duchess.  "Mr. 
Glynton — your  father — is  here  with  you,  is  he  not.  I 
should  like  au  introduction  to  him  before  the  evening  is 
over." 

"  He  will  be  only  too  delighted,"  said  Miss  Glynton;  but 
in  her  manner  the  duchess  saw  a  glimpse  of  something 
that  belied  her  word. 

"  She  is  republican  and  proud,"  thought  the  duchess  ; 
'<  and  does  not  care  to  be  patronized  by  Enghsh  aris- 
tocrats." 

It  was  the  only  way  in  which  she  could  account  for  the 
subtile  shadow  she  saw  creeping  over  the  lady's  manner. 
She  was  resolved  to  conquer,  and  would  show  the  Amer- 
ican belle  that  English  ladies  know  how  to  appreciate  ex- 
cellence wherever  they  see  it,  and  that  there  was  no  taint 
of  patronage  in  the  kindness  shown  to  her.  She  laid  her- 
self out  to  be  all  that  was  charming;  and  when  she  did  so, 
no  one  could  rival  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne. 

"  I  shoiild  like  to  introduce  my  son  to  you,"  she  said  > 
"  he  is  here,  and  my  ward,  Lady  Valentine  Arden.  I  am 
sure  that  you  will  be  delighted  with  her,  and  I  hope.  Miss 
Glynton,  that  we  shall  see  a  great  deal  of  you  while  you 
remain  in  town. " 

A  dim  idea  floated  across  her  mind  that  at  the  close  of 
the  season,  if  her  favorable  opinion  of  Miss  Glynton  con- 
tinued, she  would  invite  both  father  and  daughter  to  Rood 
Castle,  and  there  they  would  do  ibtless  learn  more  of  the 
real  ways  of  EngMsh  nobihty  than  elsewhere. 

Then  impatient  partners  claimed  Miss  Glynton,  and  she 
went  away. 

"What  do  you  think  of  her?"  asked  Lady  Teesdale, 
most  anxious  to  know. 

"  She  is  perfectly  refined  and  well-bred  ;  she  has  a  very 
beautiful  manner,"  said  the  duchess ;  "  but  moat  decidedly 
she  gives  me  the  impression  of  having  an  immense  deal  of 
repressed  power  and  energy.  I  admire  her,  but  I  do  not 
think  I  quite  understand  her.  How  the  light  in  her  eyes 
changes — how  many  varied  expressions  pass  over  her  face ! 
Is  she  like  her  father  ?" 

"  After  a  fashion.  There  is  a  family  likeness,  but  her 
face  is  more  regular  than  his.  He  is  a  handsome  man, 
trOQ.    Hq  om  could  mistake  th§  ]:elationshi|>," 


196  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  him,"  said  her  Grace  of  Castle* 
mayne. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  duke  came  to  his  mother,  and 
they  stood  for  a  few  minutes  watching  Lady  Valentine. 

"Have  you  seen  all?"  asked  the  duchess,  quietly. 
"  Hardly  possible  in  such  a  crowd,  perhaps." 

"  I  have  seen  and  spoken  to  most  of  what  people  call 
*the  beauties,'"  he  replied. 

"  There  is  one  here,"  said  the  duchess,  "  who  surpasses 
our  beautiful  Valentine  as  the  moon  outshines  the  stars." 

"  Is  there  ?"  he  answered,  languidly,  beautiful  women 
not  being  of  such  vital  interest  to  him.  "  And  who  is  she, 
mother?" 

"The  American  heiress.  Miss  Glynton,  I  have  been 
talking  to  her;  she  is  a  most  charming  woman.  Some- 
thing in  her  face  puzzled  me — it  was  so  famihar;  I  must 
have  met  some  one  like  her.  I  think,  Bertrand,  I  should 
like  to  ask  both  father  and  daughter  to  Rood  Castle 
among  our  first  visitors." 

"  I  hope,  my  dearest  mother,  you  will  always  do  just  as 
you  please  at  Hood  Castle,  and  everywhere  else,"  he  re« 
plied. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,  my  son,"  said  the  duchess; 
and  her  heart  beat  with  pride  as  she  remembered  how 
kind  and  obedient  this  beloved  son  of  hers  had  always 
been  to  her;  how  different — ah,  thank  Heaven ! — from 
other  sona 

"It  is  some  time  since  I  have  met  any  one  who  has 
pleased  me  so  much,  and  I  should  like  Valentine  to  know 
her.  I  am  not  usually  very  enthusiastic  over  my  own  sex, 
but  I  have  been  just  carried  away  with  her.  I  should  like 
to  know  her,  Bertrand;  she  is  quite  different  from  any  of 
the  people  we  meet  in  societj." 

"I  shall  be  very  pleased;"  he  said,  listlessly;  but  be 
half  wished  that  he  lived  in  a  world  where  no  beautiful 
women  existed;  they  had  no  charm  for  him. 

CHAPTER  XXXm. 

"not  even  a  daughtek-in-law." 

The  next  minute  he  had  retracted  his  judgment,  and 
was  looking  at  a  face  which  startled  him. 

"Therein  Miss  Glynton,"  the  duchess  had  said,  and 


THE  DUEE  3  SECRET.  197 

looking  in  the  direction  she  indicated,  the  duke  saw  a 

picture  he  never  forgot — a  tall,  stately  figure  dressed  in 
rich  white  velvet  aud  shining  white  silk  ;  a  fair,  queenly 
head  crowned  with  hawthorn  and  diamonds  ;  a  firm, 
white  throat  clasped  with  shining  gems ;  arms  and 
shoulders  white  and  polished,  and  a  face  that  made  him 
breathless  while  he  gazed  at  it. 

What  was  in  it  that  should  stir  his  heart  to  its  depths 
as  it  had  not  been  stirred  for  years — that  dazed  him  and 
seemed  to  turn  his  blood  to  flame  ?  There  was  some- 
thing famihar  ;  yet  he  said  to  himself,  as  his  mother  had 
done  before  him,  he  could  have  remembered  the  circum- 
stances well  had  he  met  this  beautiful  woman  before.  He 
stood  speechless,  almost  breathless,  his  eyes  full  oi 
startled  Hght  His  mother  saw  this  motion  with  dehghtr 
she  had  not  seen  it  displayed  for  any  woman  before. 

"  If  it  should  be  the  American  after  all,"  she  thought 
to  herself.  "Well,  ours  will  not  be  the  first  ducal  ]*ouse 
that  has  gone  to  America  for  a  wife.  He  could  not  have 
one  more  wealthy  or  more  beautiful,  and  those  are  two 
good  things." 

"  My  dear  Bertrgmd,"  she  said,  with  a  smile,  "  have  you 
suddenly  lost  all  your  senses  ?" 

"Not  at  all,"  he  replied;  "but  like  you,  mother,  I  have 
a  strange,  half -painful  sense  of  having  seen  that  most  beau- 
tiful face  before;  yet  it  in  impossible." 

"  You  will  like  an  introduction,  Bertrand?  "  she  said. 

"That  I  shall  most  certainly." 

Yet  there  was  a  strange  sense  on  him.  Had  this  beau- 
tiful woman  bewitched  him  ?  The  next  moment  the 
white  velvet  and  trailing  laces  were  sweeping  before  him; 
the  Hght  quivered  and  burned  in  the  diamonds  that 
cro^vned  her;  a  queenly  head  was  bent  before  Lim  for 
some  moments,  and  raised  with  queenly  grace  the  next. 
He  heard  the  murmured  words  of  introduction,  but  he 
had  not  caught  the  sense  of  them. 

Before  there  was  time  for  another  word.  Lady  Val< 
entine  joined  the  group,  and  again  the  ceremony  of  in- 
troduction was  gone  through. 

One  taking  notice,  might  have  seen  that  Miss  Glyn- 
ton's  face  flushed  as  she  bowed  to  the  eaxVs  daughter, 
and  that  a  quick  glance  fiom  her  blue  eyes  tooJk  in  every 
detail  of  the  jouag  girl's  appearance. 


J98  THE  duke's  secbet. 

Lady  Valentine  fell  in  love  with  her  on  the  spot,  while 
the  duchess,  in  her  stately  fashion,  seemed  to  feel  de- 
lighted with  her,  and  was  doing  her  best  to  be  kind  and 
amiable  to  her. 

Miss  Gl^nton,  after  her  introduction  to  the  duke» 
neither  looked  at  him  nor  spoke  to  him;  he  might  not 
have  existed  for  all  the  notice  she  took  of  him. 

He  was  somewhat  piqued;  he  was  accustomed  to  atten- 
tion from  most  people,  and  he  had  something  even 
warmer  than  that  from  Lady  Valentine.  A  lady  who  did 
not  seem  aware  of  his  existence  was  a  novelty  ;  it  piqued 
him  into  trying  to  talk  to  her,  but  her  replies  were  very 
brief,  mere  monosyllables  ;  yet  he  saw  that  to  every  one 
else  she  taked  and  laughed  brightly  enough.  It  could 
not  be  because  she  did  not  like  him — they  were  strangers, 
and  she  felt  nothing  for  him.  It  could  but  be  indifference; 
but  he  was  not  accustomed  to  indifference,  and  he  did  not 
like  it. 

Lady  Valentine  looked  quietly  amused. 

"It  serves  him  right,"  she  thought;  "if  he  would  talk 
to  me,  I  should  be  pleased  enough  to  answer  him. " 

She  thought  tjie  duke's  manner  rather  strange — he 
looked  slightly  bewildered.  There  was  something  in  the 
manner  of  the  American  heiress,  in  her  face  and  figure, 
that  startled  him.  It  was  strange,  yet  familiar  ;  he  said 
to  himself  that  he  was  sure  he  had  heard  a  voice  just  Like 
that ;  then  again  he  thought  he  had  heard  no  voice  so 
singular  sweet  and  clear.  There  was  something  familiar 
to  him  in  the  play  of  her  features,  j'et  he  had  seen  no  face 
BO  magnificently  beautiful  before.  She  puzzled  him;  and 
to  shake  off  the  curious  effect  of  her  presence,  he  asked 
Lady  Valentine  to  dance  with  him,  and  she  went  away, 
her  little  white  hand  lying  on  his  arm  and  a  smile  on  her 
lips.  The  duchess  looked  after  her  with  kindly  affection 
shining  in  her  eyes,  and  Miss  Glynton  saw  it. 

"Lady  Valentine  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  She  must  be  a  great  source  of  comfort  to  you.  You  have, 
I  believe,  no  daughters  ?" 

"  No,"  replied  the  duchess;  "not  even  the  greatest  of  all 
treasures,  a  daughter-in-law." 

A  faint  smile  rippled  over  the  beautiful  lips — it  di©^ 
ftway  with  a  touch  of  scorn. 


THE  duke's  seceet.  199 

**  It  is  the  first  time  I  have  heard  a  daughter-in-law  called 
•  treasure,"  she  said. 

"She  would  be  a  treasure  to  me,"  said  the  duchess,  with 
a  sigh,  followed  by  a  smile.  "  Some  ladies  have  shadowy 
ideas  about  daughters-in-law — my  life  is  chiefly  spent  in 
longing  for  one." 

There  was  such  a  peculiar  expression  in  Miss  Glynton's 
face  that  the  duchess  paused  involuntarily.  She  liked  this 
beautiful  woman,  but  she  could  not  in  the  least  degree 
understand  her. 

"  I  understand  that  this  is  Lady  Valentine's  first  season," 
continued  Miss  Glynton.  "  She  seems  to  be  very  mueh 
admired,  and  no  wonder." 

This  frank,  candid  praise  from  one  who  might  have  been 
jealous  pleased  the  duchess  very  much. 

"You  do  not  seem  to  fear  a  rival,"  she  said,  laughingly; 
then  wondered  why  a  brilliant  burning  flush  overspread 
the  beautiful  face. 

"  Rival  ?  "  repeated  Miss  Glynton.     "  Why  rival  ?  " 

"  I  mean  a  rival  beauty,"  said  the  duchess.  And  then 
Miss  Glynton  smiled. 

"We  covdd  never  be  rivals,"  she  replied.  "She  is 
younger  than  I  am,  and  her  great  charm  is  her  fresh 
youth.  I  have  had  some  experience  in  life,  and  it  has 
not  all  been  happy." 

"  Have  you  known  trouble  ?  "  asked  her  grace,  wonder- 
ingly ;  to  be  beautifvil  and  heiress  to  a  millionaire,  yet 
to  have  known  trouble,  "was  a  problem  to  her. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  "  that  every  one  has 
troubles  of  some  kind  or  other  ;  I  can  not  believe  that 
any  creature  living  escapes  them." 

"  I  am  sure  not,"  sighed  the  duchess,  thinking  of  her 
own — the  one  great  sorrow  that  grew  with  years. 

Then  the  duke  brought  Lady  Valentine  back  to  his 
mother,  and  was  slightly  surprised  to  find  that  the  belle  of 
the  ball  had  remained  talking  to  her  in  preference  to 
dancing.  He  looked  at  her  more  inquiringly  now,  and 
the  marvel  of  her  beauty  grew  upon  him.  The  notes  of 
the  beautiful,  plaintive  waltz  sounded,  and  he  asked  her 
if  she  were  engaged  for  it. 

"I  do  not  remember,"  she  replied  ;  then,  looking  at  the 
pretty  ivory  tablets,  she  said :  **  No,  this  is  the  only 
dance  I  have  free." 


200  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  Then  may  I  ask  for  it  ?  "  said  the  duke,  and  he  knew 
that  he  had  pleased  his  mother  when  he  saw  her  smile. 

"Yes,"  rephed  Miss  Glynton,  "I  shall  be  pleased.  Hike 
the  music  of  this  waltz  better  than  any  other  I  know." 

Then  she  was  surprised  to  find  her  eyes  raised  to  his 
face.  She  was  looking  at  him  with  an  intense,  earnest 
gaze  that  slightly  confused  him;  he  held  out  his  arm  to 
her  with  a  low  bow,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  laying 
her  hand  on  it.  Suddenly  she  shrunk  back,  the  hght 
shone  and  gleamed  in  her  diamonds,  the  hand  half  raised 
fell  at  her  side  again,  a  strange  trembling  came  over  her. 
The  duke  looked  at  her  in  surprise. 

"  I — have  changed  my  mind,"  she  said;  "  I  would  rather 
not  dance — pray  excuse  me." 

"  You  are  tired,"  said  the  duchess.  "  I  have  always 
understood  that  American  ladies  were  more  fragile  than 
English.     You  look  tired.  Miss  Glynton." 

But  the  duke  said  to  himself  it  was  not  fatigue  which 
had  so  suddenly  blanched  her  face,  nor  could  he  tell  what 
it  was. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  duchess,  "  Miss  Glynton  would  find 
a  change  to  one  of  the  drawing-rooms  pleasant,  Bertrand. 
It  will  be  better  than  sitting  here  in  this  warm  room." 

To  this  Miss  Glynton  found  no  objection  ;  the  duke  did 
not  offer  his  arm,  but  walked  by  her  side ;  she  was 
strangely  silent,  and  he  hardly  knew  how  to  talk  to  this 
beautiful  woman  who  had  shrunk  from  dancing  with  him. 
The  same  topic  that  had  served  her  with  the  duchese 
served  her  now — Lady  Valentine.  She  was  waltzing  with 
a  handsome  young  officer  as  they  crossed  the  ball-room. 

"  I  forget,"  said  Miss  Glynton  ;  "  is  Lady  Valentine 
related  to  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  but  very  distantly.  My  mother,  the  duchess,  and 
Lord  Arden  were  related,  but  so  distantly  they  can  hardly 
be  said  to  be  related  at  all — four  or  fifth  cousins,  I 
beheve." 

"Lady  Valentine  must  be  a  great  addition  to  your  house- 
hold," said  Miss  Glynton.  "  I  have  a  strange  fancy  that 
I  heard  the  duchess  spoken  of  in  Paris  as  having  a  pro- 
(5egee,  but  the  name  was  not  Lady  Valentine." 

A  Hght  came  over  his  face. 

"You  must  have  heard  of  Lady  Nell,"  he  said.    "  AJbi« 


THE  duke's  segbst.  201 

pardon,"  for  the  jeweled  fan  she  held  fell  to  the  ground, 
and  he  stooped  to  regain  it. 

"  Lady  Nell,"he  continued,  "  my  mother's  neice  ;  she 
married  last  year." 

"  Married  ?"  repeated  Miss  Glynton,  and  she  spoke  as 
one  who  seeks  to  gain  time.  "  I  had'  not  heard.  Whom 
has  she  married  ?" 

"  Sir  Edward  Layard.  You  have  heard  him  spoken  of 
■' — a  great  traveler  and  linguist." 

"  Is  she  very  happy  ?"  was  the  next  question,  one  that 
surprised  him  ;  bat  then  Americans  have  the  fashion  of 
asking  most  extraordinary  things. 

"  Happy?  Yes,  I  suppose  so;  the  same  as  other  peo- 
ple. She  was  very  fond  of  Sir  Edwin.  Lady  Nell  is 
happy,  I  am  sure." 

And  then  they  came  to  the  magnificent  room  where  he 
wished  her  to  rest. 

"  How  beautiful  these  English  homes  are  ?  There  is 
nothing  in  England  I  admire  so  much  as  the  interior  of 
the  homes." 

"  You  have  beautiful  houses  in  America,"  he  said. 

"Yes,  but  they  do  not  seem  like  yours;  they  are  newer, 
most  of  them;  the  decorations  are  different." 

"  You  have  not  been  in  England  very  long,"  said  the 
duke.  "  Have  you  seen  any  of  our  oldest  places — old 
castles,  such  as  Arundel,  Alnwick  or  "Worcester?" 

"  I  have  seen  an  old  English  castle,"  she  replied,  "  but 
none  of  those." 

"I  should  think,"  laughed  the  duke,  "that if  there  is 
anything  in  England  of  which  an  American  would  feel 
jealous  it  would  be  of  those  grand  old  ruins  of  ours." 

"  I  do  not  think  they  are  jealous,"  she  replied,  as  she 
took  the  offered  chair.  "  I  am  always  ready  to  do  battle 
for  the  land  of  the  *  Stars  and  Stripes.* " 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

**TOU  HAVE  WEONQED  A  WOMAW.** 

"  To  ME,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  "there  is  something  almost 
laughable  in  the  average  English  idea  of  America.  You 
seem  to  think  it  quite  a  new  world.  Does  any  one  ever 
think  of  the  thousands  of  years  it  has  taken  to  form  our 
immense  forests— our  primeval  forests?    Do  you  think 


202  THE  duke's  secmt. 

there  are  no  ruins  in  America  ?  Have  you  read  anything 
of  the  buried  cities — cities  buried  in  the  depths  of  ancient 
forests?  Do  you  think  there  are  no  ruins  in  America?  You 
have  no  relics  of  antiquity  bo  grand  as  those." 

"  I  have  the  greatest  respect  for  America,"  said  the 
duke,  "  although  it  is  quite  true  I  have  always  looked 
upon  it  as  new.  It  is  a  nation  without  history,  without 
traditions." 

"Do  you  not  think,"  she  replied,  "the  real  history  of 
America — its  ancient  history — is  told  by  rocks  and  trees 
of  the  primeval  forests,  not  merely  by  records  of  pen  and 
ink  ?  You  must  remember  that  the  fact  of  its  being  a 
new  world  to  you  does  not  make  it  a  new  world  to  itself. 
None  can  judge  of  America  until  they  have  seen  it." 

"  That  I  do  believe,"  said  the  duke ;  "  and  I  hope  to 
see  it  some  day.  I  have  often  thought  how  much  I 
shoidd  enjoy  a  trip  across  the  Atlantic.  You  return  to 
America,  I  presume,  Miss  Glynton  ?" 

"  I  am  not  sure,"  she  replied.  "  My  father  has  a  great 
love  for  England — above  all,  for  London." 

"  Your  father  has  not  the  ordinary  American  type, 
either  of  physique  or  manner,"  said  the  duke.  "  I  should 
not  have  recognized  you  as  an  American  lady,  either.  I 
like  to  hear  you  defend  that  strong  beautiful  land  of 
yours,"  he  said ;  *'  the  love  of  one's  native  country  is 
strong." 

"  All  real  love  must  be  strong,"  she  said  decidedly. 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  I  have  known  many  loves  that 
have  proved  to  be  weak  enough." 

And  he  thought  of  his  own  as  he  spoke. 

"  Not  real  love,"  she  said,  and  the  beauty  of  her  face 
deepened.  "  Many  things  are  called  love  which  do  not 
deserve  the  name— all  kinds  of  weak  fancies  and  senti- 
mental notions;  but  real  love  is  a  thing  quite  apart." 

"You  are  right,"  he  said. 

She  went  on,  unconscious  of  his  interruption: 

"Even  in  the  Scriptures  the  might  and  strength  of  love 
are  recognized.  Do  you  remember  those  words,  *  Many 
waters  can  not  quench  love,  neither  can  floods  destroy 
it.  Such  words  would  not  be  used  for  the  weak  fancies 
and  baby  passions  that  men  call  love." 

The  beautiful  face  was  full  of  superb  scorn.  The  duke 
M  ne  looked  at  her  in  admiration,  wondwsd  what  gho 


THE  duke's  secret.  203 

Wcmld  say  if  she  knew  his  love  story  and  his  secret.  He 
could  pictui'e  the  scorn  such  a  story  would  caU  into  those 
beautiful  eyes.  Thank  Heaven,  he  had  not  to  go  through 
the  ordeal! 

"You  and  Lady  "Valentine  would  be  good  friends,  I  am 
sure,"  he  said;  "those  are  her  ideas.  She  takes  every- 
thing in  earnest.  She  is  quite  different  from  other 
people;  she  is  so  much  more  truthful  and  honest,  candid 
and  frank." 

"  She  has  not  quite  learned  enough  of  the  world  to  dis^ 
guise  all  her  feelings  and  thoughts,"  said  Miss  Glynton, 
with  a  curl  of  her  beautiful  hps. 

"  You  speak  as  though  the  world  had  taught  you  some 
bitter  lessons,  Miss  Glynton." 

"  It  has  taught  me  one,"  she  replied.  "I  was  a  dreamer 
and  believer  in  every  one  and  everything — an  enthusiast; 
and  I  had  one  sharp,  bitter  lesson.  I  do  not  need  a  sec- 
ond." 

"  One  would  hardly  think  it  to  look  at  you,"  he  said. 

"What  can  you  tell  from  looks?"  she  said.  "Do  you 
believe  that  men  and  women  carry  the  story  of  their  lives 
in  their  faces?" 

"  Some  of  them  ?"  he  replied. 

"  How  do  you  read  them  ?"  she  asked. 

"  I  can  not  tell — by  instinct,"  replied  the  duke. 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  bim. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  have  the  same  instinct,"  she  said,  slowly. 
**  I  fear  not.  Now,  looking  at  you,  I  could  not  tell  whether 
you  had  a  story  in  your  hfe  or  not." 

He  shrunk  with  a  scared  expression  in  his  face;  it  was 
not  often  that  women  spoke  so  plainly  to  him.  "Let  me 
guess,"  she  continued,  with  a  charming  smUe.  "  You  are 
a  mighty  peer,  you  have  wealth,  honor,  nobility.  You 
are  young,  gifted;  the  friendship  of  men  and  the  love  of 
women  must  both  have  been  yours.  You  have  no  lines 
on  your  face,  no  shadow  in  your  eyes.  "Who  shall  saj 
whether  a  story  lies  there  or  not?  " 

"  You  almost  frighten  me,"  he  said. 

"Frighten;  that  should  not  be  possible.  Now  let  me 
make  mv  guess.  The  world  pays  you  great  homage  I 
Bee  to-night  fair  faces  brighten  for  you  and  bright  eyes 
flash;  your  life  must  seem  all  sunlight  to  those  who  know 
you;  but  I,  rea^e  jouj  f^e,  veixtur^  to  say  that  you 


204  THE  duke's  secret. 

have  a  very  sad  and  sorrowful  story.      Am  I  right  oi- 

wrong  r 

He  bent  his  head;  and  she  saw  the  color  fade  from  his 
face  as  he  whispered: 

"Bight — you  are  right;  but  no  one  knows  it;  how  can 
you,  a  stranger  tell  ?  " 

"lam  right,  then?"  she  said,  slowly.  "I  thought  I 
was." 

^  "  Tell  me  how  you  know  ?"  he  asked,  startled  out  of  his 
usual  tranquility.  "  This  is  the  first  time  we  have  met, 
and  yet  you  have  read  what  my  nearest  and  dearest  have 
not  read.     Tell  me  ;  my  curiosity  is  excited." 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  repUed.  "  I  have,  perhaps,  hardly 
been  fair.  I  heard  of  you  before  I  saw  you.  I  heard  you 
discussed  one  day  ;  and  the  ladies  speaking  of  you  said 
you  were  a  woman-hater.  It  is  one  thing  to  hear  a  circle 
of  men  say,  with  unmistakable  admiration,  that  you  are  a 
woman-hater  ;  it  is  quite  another  thing  when  the  loveliest 
women  with  the  brightest  eyes  say  the  same." 

The  duke  felt  ashamed  of  his  title  for  the  first  time. 

Miss  Glynton  went  on  : 

"  I  said  to  myself  that  if  you  were  a  woman-hater  you 
must  have  a  reason  for  it.  Men  do  not  hate  women  nat- 
uraUy,  do  they  ?" 

"  I  suppose  not,"  he  replied. 

"  You  see  that  I  am  a  close  reasoner.  It  is  clear  to  m« 
that  if  you  hate  women  you  have  a  reason." 

"  And  what  would  you  imagine  that  reason  to  be  ?" 
asked  the  duke. 

"  There  are  but  two — one  is,  that  you  dislike  all  women 
because  one  has  wronged  you  ;  the  other,  that  your  dislike 
to  women  springs  from  the  fact  that  you  have  wronged 
one." 

He  gazed  at  her  in  utter  amazement. 

"  No  one  has  ever  spoken  to  me  in  such  a  strain  be- 
fore," he  said.  "  I  am  foolish,  as  it  may  seem ;  hidf 
frightened." 

"  Am  I  right  or  wrong  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Right,"  he  rephed. 

"  But  you  will  not  teU  me  which  of  the  two  reasons  it 
is  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No  ;  that  would  b©  impossible.     Why,  Miss  Glyntoa, 


THE  DUKE'S   SECEET.  205 

you  have  stirred  the  very  depths  of  my  heart.  I  am  at  a 
loss  what  to  say." 

"There  is  truth,  then,  in  the  old  proverb  that  a  ran* 
dom  shot  often  goes  home." 

"It  is  quite  true,"  he  replied  ;  "and  for  a  random  shot, 
j-ours,  Miss  Glynton,  was  a  very  extraordinary  one.  What 
a  strange  thing  it  seems  that  we  should  have  fallen  into 
this  confidential  strain." 

"  Yes,  it  is  strange,"  she  answered;  "  but  it  is  to  be  ao- 
counted  for  on  quite  natural  grounds.  I  heard  these  ladies 
discussing  you,  and  the  discussion  interested  me.  They 
called  you  a  woman-hater,  and  the  title  was  new  to  me. 
Then  this  idea  came  to  me,  that  either  -"ou  hated  them  be- 
cause you  had  been  wronged,  or  because  you  had  wronged 
the  whole  sex  in  one.  Then  comes  my  introduction  to  you, 
and,  looking  into  your  face,  I  read  a  story  there ;  perhaps 
they  would  have  read  it  with  the  same  result  had  they 
thought  of  ik" 

"  Well,  one  thing  is  quite  sure,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  shall 
never  be  able  to  think  of  you  as  a  stranger  again.  You 
seem  to  have  gone  deeper  into  my  life  than  those  whom  I 
have  known  for  years.  I  shall  always  remember  this  ball 
and  my  first  introduction  to  you." 

All  her  shyness  had  vanished;  she  seemed  perfectly  easy 
and  self-possessed;  she  leaned  back  with  a  smile  on  her 
face,  queenly,  dignified,  yet  the  very  softness  of  her  eyes, 
as  they  rested  on  him  encouraged  him  to  talk  on. 

"I  am  rather  dazed,"  said  the  duke;  "I  feel  as  though 
some  hazy  notions  of  a  former  existence  were  floating 
through  my  brain.  I  could  almost  believe  that  other  ex- 
istence had  known  you." 

"  Very  fanciful  ideas,"  she  said  dryly. 

"  I  like  thinking  and  reading  of  that  kind  of  sensation,** 
he  continued.  "  It  has  occurred  to  me  so  often,  and  I 
have  heard  many  people  speak  of  it." 

*  I  believe  in  one  life,  and  in  one  only,"  said  Miss 
Glynton.     "  I  think  most  of  us  will  find  it  quite  enough." 

"  Do  you  feel  rested,"  said  his  grace,  anxiously.  "  I 
must  not  forget,  however  pleasant  it  maybe  to  me  to  see 
you  here,  that  the  light  has  gone  from  the  ball-room." 

"  I  shall  not  dance  again  this  evening,"  she  said,  with  a 
kindly,  quiet  smile,  "  after  declining  to  dance  with  you." 

«  Do  not  let  that  influence  you.    I  shall  be  grieved  il 


HOfi  mi  duke's  SEOBlf. 

you  do  BO ;  you  were  tired,  now  you  are  rested.  I  am 
tempted  to  fa^  my  fate  once  more,  and  ask  you  if  you  will 
dance  with  me." 

"  I  must  decline  again,"  she  answered.  "  I  am  afraid 
you  will  think  me  very  capricious  and  changeable." 

"  I  shall  always  think  of  you  at;  one  of  the  most  wonder- 
ful ladies  I  have  ever  mei  If  you  have  really  no  partner 
whom  you  wish  to  make  happy.  Miss  Glynton,  we  can  not 
do  better,  I  think,  than  remain  where  we  are  for  a  short 
time  longer," 

And  there  they  did  remain,  discussing  everything  under 
the  &un;  the  duke  growing  more  and  more  delighted 
with  her  every  moment,  while  she  certainly  did  her  best 
to  win  his  admiration.  An  hour  passed  before  they  re- 
turned to  the  duchess,  who  waited  them  anxiously.  The 
room  was  less  crowded  then,  and  her  Grace  of  Castle- 
mayne  had  a  great  horror  of  remaining  until  the  last 
She  made  some  smiling  remark,  and  then  asked  the  duke 
if  he  would  go  in  search  of  Lady  Valentine. 

"I  have  not  seen  her  for  the  last  half  hour,"  she  said; 
•*  she  went  away  with  Lord  Cardiff." 

The  duke  left  the  two  ladies  together  while  he  went  in 
search  of  Lady  Valentine.  The  duchess  laughed  as  she 
said: 

"  You  will  take  my  son's  title  from  him.  Miss  Glynton, 
and  rob  him  of  all  his  glory." 

For  one  half  minute  there  was  a  curious  look  on  the 
beautiful  face,  and  then  Miss  Glynton  smiled  in  return. 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  "I  understand.  You  mean  his 
title  of  '  woman  hater.'  I  think  it  has  been  very  unjustly 
given,  your  grace;  I  see  no  reason  for  it" 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  it,"  said  the  duchess;  "  I  am 
sure  that  no  one  could  give  him  that  terrible  name  this 
evening.    I  wish  he  could  lose  it  forever." 

"He  never  deserved  it,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  briefly. 

And  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  wonderec*  at  the  authoriigf 
i»  hex  voice  as  she  uttered  the  words. 


«BE  duke's  SE0B£7.  '^07 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A  LADT  TO  6BA0B  A   HOME. 

Mb.  Gltnton  entered  the  drawing-room  where  his 
heiress  sat  reading,  with  a  quantity  of  envelopes  in  his 
hand. 

"  All  invitations,"  he  said,  as  he  laid  them  before  the 
beautiful  lady,  who  glanced  at  him  with  a  careless  smile. 

"You  will  have  to  keep  a  secretary,"  he  said;  "you 
will  never  have  time  to  answer  them  all,  much  less  accept 
them." 

She  laughed  aloud. 

"  We  have  proved  the  extent  of  our  capabilities,**  she 
repUed.  "  One  dinner  party  and  three  balls  are  as 
much  as  we  can  manage,  and  that  we  should  not  accom- 
pMsh  unless  you  were  the  most  energetic  and  brightest 
of  men." 

"  There  is  one  dinner  invitation  here  that  I  would  like 
to  accept,"  said  the  milUonaire.  "  The  Duchess  of  Castle- 
mayne  asks  us  to  dine  there  next  Tuesday.  I  should  like 
to  go  there,  pet.  I  have  seen  no  woman  so  handsome  as 
the  duchess  ;  she  is  magnificent ;  the  very  type  of  an 
English  duchess — gentle  and  caressing,  yet  proud  and 
stately.     Her  manner  is  superb." 

•'  It  is  indeed,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  dryly.  He  looked 
up  quickly  when  he  heard  the  tone'of  her  voice. 

"  Don't  you  like  the  duchess,  pet  ?  If  you  do  not  you 
shall  not  go." 

"  Like  her  ?"  was  the  evasive  answer,  "  why  should  I 
not  ?  Every  one  says  she  is  the  most  popular  woman  in 
London,  and  she  was  most  gracious  to  me." 

"  Every  one  is,"  he  said. 

"  But  she  was  more  than  usually  gracious.  You  do  not 
know  how  proud  and  haughty  the  Duchess  of  Castle- 
mayne  is." 

"  But  she  was  not  proud  to  you,"  said  the  millionaire. 

"  No  ;  that's  why  I  can  not  help  hking  her — a  little.  I 
agree  with  you,  it  will  be  as  well  to  accept  that  invita- 
tion." 

"  I  like  the  duke,"  said  Mr.  Grlynton,  "  I  may  say  that 
I  like  him  better  than  any  Englishman  I  have  ever  seen; 
he  was  kind  and  attentive  to  me.    He  said  how  much  ho 


208  THE  duke's  secbet. 

should  like  me  to  see  Bood  Castle — one  of  the  oldest  in 
England,  I  was  very  much  struck  with  his  urbanity  and 
kindnesa  " 

"  A  sudden  friendship,"  she  said. 

"Not  quite  that — a  sudden  liking,  rather;  and  that  re- 
minds me,  pet,  my  eyes  are  not  closed.  I  saw  at  the  ball 
that  I  was  not  the  only  person  who  seemed  to  enjoy  talk- 
ing to  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne." 

Her  face  flushed,  and  a  strange  light  came  into  her  eyes. 

"  I  was  too  tired  to  dance  much,  and  he  talked  to  me," 
she  replied,  carelessly. 

"  Then  I  must  answer  *  yes '  to  that  invitation.  Now 
let  us  look  through  the  rest,  and  see  what  we  shall  pre- 
fer." 

He  sat  down  at  her  side;  and  they  looked  at  the  num- 
erous cards  and  notes  of  invitation. 

"Lady  Purdon  at  home.  I — I  do  not  care  for  her, 
pet ;  she's  a  woman's  rights  woman.  Mrs.  Choular's 
matinee  musicale,  I  should  not  care  for  that.  A  ball  at 
the  French  embassy  ;  yes,  we  will  go.  Garden  party  at 
Bichmond,  just  as  you  like,  pet,"  was  the  running  com- 
mentary made  by  the  millionaire  on  the  notes  and  cards. 
"  After  all,"  he  continued,  "  see  how  the  world  runs  after 
money.  It  is  money  in  our  case  ;  beautiful  as  you  are, 
pet,  even  your  beauty  would  not  have  brought  '^s  one 
tithe  of  the  popularity  money  has  brought." 

"  Money  is  a  great  power,"  she  said  ;  "  there  are  few 
greater.     I  must  write  to  Mayne  House  at  once." 

"  Pet,"  asked  Mr.  Glynton,  suddenly,  "  have  you  seen 
Lady  Belle  Chalmers,  do  you  know  her  at  all  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "I  do  not  remember  the  name." 

"  I  met  her  at  Glacourts,  and  I  liked  her  very  much  ; 
Bhe  seemed  to  be  the  merriest,  blithest  woman  I  have  met. 
I  should  hke  you  to  know  her.  If  you  see  any  chance  of 
an  introduction  to  her,  avail  yourself  of  it." 

"  I  will,"  she  replied,  with  a  keen,  Hngering  look  at  hia 
face,  on  which  she  read  some  little  sign  of  confusion. 

"Who  is  Lady  Belle  Chalmers;  is  she  married  or 
smgle?" 

"  She  is  a  widow,"  he  interrupted ;  "  quite  a  young 
widow,  and  holds  an  excellent  position.  Her  husband 
had  some  appointment  in  the  royal  household.  They  had 
only  been  married  a  few  months  when  he  died." 


^  ..  THE  DUKE*S  SECRET.  '  209 

**  Did  she  tell  you  tliis  ?  "  asked  Miss  (jMynton,  with  a 
Blight  upraising  of  her  beautiful  eyebrows. 

"Yes;  we  talked  for  a  long  time.  I  thought  her  very 
interesting.  K  you  have  an  opportunity,  you  might  make 
friends  with  her." 

"  I  will,  most  decidedly,"  she  answered,  wondering  if 
liady  Belle  had  made  an  impression  on  the  heart  of  the 
millionaire;  wondering,  also,  if  it  were  in  the  decrees  of 
fate  he  should  marry.  If  it  were  for  his  happiness,  she 
hoped  most  devoutly  that  he  would  do  so.  Aid  so  it  hap- 
pened that  during  the  next  few  days  she  met  Lady  Belle 
Chalmers. 

The  evening  of  the  dinner-party  at  Mayne  House  came, 
and  Mr.  Glynton  fancied  that  his  beautiful  heiress  was 
slightly  distraii,  imeasy,  and  preoccupied  during  the  whole 
day. 

"  I  wonder  if  the  party  will  be  a  large  one  ?"  he  said, 
as  the  time  came  for  them  to  dress.  "  Look  your  best  to- 
night, pet." 

The  advice  was  hardly  needed.  There  was  a  hght, 
half  of  triumph,  half  of  defiance.  On  that  beautiful  face 
which  doubled  its  beauty.  From  the  care  and  attention 
she  gave  to  her  toilet,  she  might  have  been  going  to  dine 
with  the  queen.  Her  dress  was  a  marvel  of  beauty,  a 
rich  brocade,  white  ground,  with  pale  golden  flowers,  and 
with  it  she  wore  a  pariire  of  rich  rubies  and  diamonds. 
Fine  costly  lace  trailed  in  beautiful  folds  around  her;  the 
square  body  of  the  dress  showed  the  white  breast  and 
graceful  throat.  Every  detail  was  perfection,  and  matched 
the  marvelous  blend  of  the  gold  and  white  dress. 

"  I  have  never  seen  you  look  so  well  before,"  Mr.  Glyn- 
ton said,  as  he  glanced  with  admiration  at  the  grand, 
queenly  figure  and  face;  "but,  my  dear,  there  is  some- 
thing in  your  face;  you  look — well,  words  fail  me;  I  can 
not  quite  tell  what— are  you  pleased  or  sorry  ?" 

"Neither,"  she  answered,  indifferently. 

"  There  is  a  look  on  your  face  I  have  never  seen  be- 
fore," he  said.  "  I  wonder,  pet,  if  Lady  Belle  will  be 
there  ?" 

"  I  hope  so,  if  you  wish  to  see  her,"  she  answered. 

"  I  enjoy  myself  more  when  she  is  present  than  when 
she  is  absent,"  he  said,  drawing  the  white  wrapper  round 
ber  shoulders  and  helping  her  into  the  carriage. 


210  THE  duke's  secret.  i 

It  was  a  beautiful  fine  night,  warm  without  being  sultry, 
with  a  lovely  fragrant  air,  the  sun  setting  and  the  beautiful 
hush  of  the  summer  evening  lying  over  the  land. 

They  were  late.  Most  of  the  guests  invited  had  arrived 
and  were  in  the  drawing-room.  To  the  millionaire's  great 
delight,  Lady  Belle  Chalmers  was  there,  and  seemed 
pleased  to  see  him. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  looking  very  stately  and 
magnificent  in  her  dress  of  rich  ruby  velvet,  received  them 
with  great  empressement.  The  duke  came  forward  to  re- 
ceive them  with  the  greatest  cordiality.  Lady  Valentine 
left  the  little  group  of  courtiers,  who  were  doing  their 
best  to  detain  her,  and  began  to  talk  to  Miss  Glynton  ; 
the  duke  stood  by  them,  and  many  eyes  lingered  with 
admiration  on  the  two  beautiful  women  and  the  handsome 
young  patrician  with  them.  Mr.  Glynton  afterwards  ex- 
pressed himself  as  being  delighted  with  all  the  arrange- 
ments ;  he  had  been  asked  to  take  Lady  Belle  Chalmers 
down  to  dinner,  and  to  judge  from  his  face  he  had  found 
the  task  most  delightful.  The  duke  offered  his  arm  to 
Miss  Glynton,  and  Lady  Valentine  fell  to  the  share  of 
one  of  her  most  hopeful  and  fervent  adorers,  Sir  Harry 
Bellairs,  the  handsome  guardsman. 

The  duchess  followed  with  Lord  Hargraves  ;  she  was 
most  gracious  and  bland  this  evening,  delighted  that  the 
Americans  had  accepted  her  invitation  ;  above  all  that 
her  son  paid  so  much  attention  to  Miss  Glynton. 

"  A  royally  beautiful  woman,"  said  the  duchess  to  her- 
self, "  one  who  would  grace  his  home." 

The  party  was  not  large,  but  it  was  certainly  brilliant. 
It  would  have  been  difficult  to  have  found  three  more 
beautiful  women,  though  each  different  in  their  way,  than 
the  duchess.  Miss  Glynton,  and  Lady  Valentine  Arden, 
Mrs.  Henson  and  Mrs.  Burdett  were  present  also,  both 
briUiant  and  clever.  The  dinner  was  perfect,  the  wine 
superb  ;  the  conversation  brilliant  and  intellectual ;  wit 
and  reparte  of  the  keenest,  finest  kind. 

Lady  Belle  Chalmers  was  a  great  addition;  she  was 
cheerful,  witty,  amusing,  and  kind-hearted  ;  a  lady  just 
in  the  prime  of  hfe,  with  a  pleasant,  happy,  and  honest 
face — a  face  that  brightened  and  shone  with  every  fresh 
gleam  of  humor.  She  was  not  a  beautiful  woman,  but 
j^e  was  elegant,  fascinating,  and  always  elegantly  dressed  ,* 


THE  DUKE*S  SECRET.  211 

an  accomplished  and  well  educated  woman,  who  spoke 
two  or  three  different  languages  quite  as  well  as  English 
who  had  read  and  thought,  and  knew  all  the  leading 
characters  of  the  day.  A  thorough  woman  of  the  world, 
with  a  keen  appreciation  of  luxury  and  comfort,  with  a 
perfect  knowledge  of  the  power  of  money  and  the  power 
of  rank.  One  of  the  most  agreeable  women  in  England, 
and  universally  liked. 

For  some  years  after  she  was  left  a  widow  people  won- 
dered whether  she  would  marry  again.  She  had  a  nice 
house  and  a  comfortable  income  ;  she  belonged  to  the 
best  set  in  London;  she  had  never  been  either  a  coquette 
or  a  flii-t,  and  of  late  every  one  had  come  to  the  conclu- 
sion that  she  would  remain  a  widow  until  the  end  of  the 
chapter.  But  Mr,  Griynton  seemed  devoted  to  her,  and  a 
wonder  was  felt  by  many  people  as  to  whether  or  not  he 
would  be  able  to  induce  her  to  change  her  opinions.  So 
the  party  was  a  brilliant  success.  Perhaps  the  most  silent 
person  present  was  Miss  Glynton  ;  but  though  she  said 
little,  she  listened  attentively,  and  the  duke  thought  her 
more  bewitching  than  ever. 

"Lady  Layard  was  to  have  dined  with  us,"  he  said; 
"  but  she  was  prevented  from  coming.  She  promised  to 
look  in  dming  the  evening  if  she  could." 

"  Lady  Layard,"  repeated  Miss  Glynton.  "  I  do  not 
remember  the  name." 

"  AVe  were  speaking  of  her  the  other  evening — Lady 
Nell,  my  mother's  niece." 

"  I  had  forgotten,"  she  said;  but  the  face  she  bent  over 
her  plate  was  a  trifle  paler,  and  her  heart  beat  quickly. 

"  I  am  sure  you  wiU  like  Lady  Layard,"  said  the  duke; 
'  every  one  does  who  knows  her." 

But  she  neither  looked  at  him  nor  answered  him  one 
<eord. 

CHAPTER  XXXYI. 

"l   KNOW   YOUE   SECRET." 

The  drawing-room  at  Mayne  House  was  one  of  the 
finest,  largest,  and  most  magnificent  in  London.  It  had 
been  entirely  redecorated  and  refurnished  by  the  present 
duchess,  whose  taste  was  of  the  most  artistic  and  perfect 
kind.     There  was  no  ovorcrowding  eithor  of  pictures, 


212  THE  duke's  secret. 

statues,  or  flowers;  no  profuse  gilding  or  coBfusion  of  fur« 
niture;  the  different  colors  were  all  subdued,  delicate  iu 
hue,  and  gracefully  contrasted;  the  pictures  were  some 
of  them  by  the  great  masters  of  art,  others  by  the  most 
famous  of  modem  artists.  From  the  shade  of  late  plants 
white  marble  statues  gleamed,  copies  of  the  world's  great 
wonders.  The  daintiest  treasures  were  there — choice 
emeralds,  superb  marquetry,  old  buhl  work,  vases  of  jas- 
per and  of  malachite;  the  daintiest  chiua.  There  was  a 
beautiful  portrait,  said  to  be  quite  authentic,  of  Mary  of 
Scotland;  and  hundreds  of  other  articles  of  virtu  and  art. 
But  there  was  nothing  struck  a  stranger  so  much  as  the 
beautiful  arrangement  of  flowers;  they  were  everywhere; 
and  yet  there  did  not  appear  to  be  one  too  many.  In  one 
of  the  groups  of  late  plants  pretty  chairs  had  been  placed, 
forming  something  like  a  little  bower;  and  this  evening, 
with  so  many  beautiful  women,  it  was  a  fairy  bower. 

The  duchess  had  her  favorite  seat,  a  luxurious  couch, 
placed  near  the  great  windows,  and  half  shielded  from 
view  by  a  superb  statue  of  Hebe,  surrounded  by  flowers. 
She  went  there  at  once,  followed  by  Lady  Belle,  whose 
lively  conversation  amused  her. 

The  other  ladies  were  busy  discussing  a  fancy  fair,  in 
which  the  fashionable  world  was  vitally  interested.  It 
would  materially  assist  the  funds  of  a  very  charitable  in- 
stitution for  children;  it  would  be  likewise  a  tine  oppor- 
tunity for  the  display  of  superb  toilets;  a  fair  battle- 
ground for  rival  beauties.  Altogether  it  was  an  engross- 
ing topic,  and  there  was  much  to  say  on  the  subject. 

Lady  Valentine  had  drawn  Miss  Glinton's  attention  to 
a  beautiful  book  of  engravings;  they  were  both  seated  at 
a  table  ttiming  over  the  leaves.  No  picture  in  that  room 
was  as  beautiful  as  those  two  fair  beads  bent  together; 
one  in  the  fresh  grace  of  jouth,  the  other  in  the  magnifi- 
cence of  matured  beauty. 

"  Do  you  care  about  seeing  photographs,  Miss  Glyn- 
ton?"  asked  Lady  Valentine;  "we  have  some  views  of 
Bood  Castle  which  I  think  are  unequaled. 

"Of  Rood  Castle?"  she  replied,  looking  up  with  a 
startled  glance,  her  face  flushing  and  paling;  **  Bood  Cas- 
tle, did  you  say  ?" 

And  Lady  Valentine  did  not  see  that  she  merely  rt- 
peated  the  words  to  give  herself  time.  i 


;•  THS  duee's  secbst.  213 

••  Tes,  that  is  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne^s  family  estate; 
such  a  line  old  castle;  and  the  photographs  of  it  are  really 
beautiful;  they  ai-e  artistic,  not  taken  at  hazard,  but  u 
series  of  the  finest  views  taken  by  a  firm  of  photographers 
whom  the  duchess  especially  engaged.  Would  you  like 
to  see  them  ?  " 

"  Very  much,"  replied  Miss  Glynton;  and  then  there 
was  a  slight  quiver  of  pain  on  her  lips  as  she  smiled. 

"  They  are  on  the  table  near  the  duchess's  couch.  She 
loves  Rood  Castle,  and  never  passes  a  day  without  look- 
ing at  these  views.     I  will  go  for  them." 

"  Pray  do  not  give  yourself  any  trouble.  Lady  Valen- 
tine," said  Miss  Glynton, 

"  It  will  be  a  pleasure,  not  a  trouble,"  she  replied.  "  I 
have  never  seen  the  Castle ;  but,  judging  from  the  views, 
I  should  say  there  was  not  a  more  lovely  spot  in  England," 
and  the  young  girl  paused  for  one-half  minute,  wonder- 
ing if  she  could  tell  this  peerless  and  beautiful  woman  she 
admired  so  greatly,  that  any  service  she  could  render 
her  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  herself. 

"  Perhaps  she  would  not  understand  it,"  she  said  to 
herself.  "I  suppose  to  talk  of  fashionable  beauties — 
about  loving  them — is  nonsense,  after  all;  but  this  beau- 
tiful woman,  with  her  calm,  grand  face,  is  not  like  a 
fashionable  beauty." 

Then  she  went  in  search  of  the  book  of  views.  It  lay 
on  the  table  near  the  duchess;  and  Lady  Valentine  looked 
at  her  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  May  I  take  this  ?  I  want  to  show  Miss  Glynton  all 
the  beauties  of  Rood  Castle." 

"You  may  always  do  just  as  you  like,"  said  her  grace; 
and  Lady  Valentine  went  away  with  the  book.  Was  it 
her  fancy  or  did  the  beautiful  face  look  paler?  Miss 
Glynton  had  moved  her  chair  so  that  the  light  no  longer 
fell  on  her  face,  but  ahone  in  the  superb  tiara  of  rubies 
and  diamonds  that  encircled  the  fair  hair.  Lady  Valen- 
tine laid  it  before  her  and  opened  the  pages. 

"  I  have  heard  the  duchess  speak  of  it  so  often,  and  we 
have  looked  over  the  book  so  frequently  together,  that  I 
know  every  nook  and  corner  of  it." 

But  somewhat  to  her  suTDrise.  a  white  hand  was  laid 
on  tlie  open  pag^. 

"  If  you  will  pardon  me,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  la  ft  lot? 


214  THE  duke's  secret. 

voice,  "  I  wiU  look  at  them  first  and  try  to  guess  what  the 
places  are,  and  you  shall  tell  me  if  I  am  right." 

Sweet-tempered  Lady  Valentine  did  just  as  she  was 
desired  ;  she  laid  the  open  pages  before  Miss  Glynton* 
Once  she  had  a  fancy  that  the  richly-jeweled  fingers 
trembled  as  they  turned  over  the  pages,  and  once  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  grand  face  had  lost  all  its  color, 
but  that  mus^  have  been  the  changing  shadows  of  the 
light 

There  was  silence  for  some  short  time  between  them. 
Miss  Glynton  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the  beautiful 
pictures,  buf,  she  made  no  comment  and  spoke  no  word. 
No  one  saw  how  her  lips  quivered  ;  no  one  saw,  as  she 
sat  in  the  shadow,  how  her  face  grew  dim  and  her  eyes 
filled  with  the  mist  of  tears.  One  white  hand  was  tightly 
clinched,  and  by  that  means  she  suppressed  all  outward 
show  of  emotion. 

"  Now,  Miss  Glynton,"  cried  Lady  Valentine,  "  is  all 
America  half  so  beautiful  as  this?  " 

She  was  fairly  startled  when  Miss  Glynton  looked  at 
her,  the  expression  of  her  face  was  so  entirely  changed, 
and  there  was  a  far-off,  dreamy  look  in  her  eyes — a  look 
of  such  sad  memory  and  such  suppressed  pain. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Valentine,  I  did  not  hear," 
she  said,  and  there  was  something  so  sad,  so  dreary  in 
the  tone  of  her  voice,  that  all  the  sympathy  of  the  kindly 
young  heart  was  aroused. 

"  I  said,  have  you  anything  in  America  so  beautiful  as 
thisr 

Miss  Glynton  smiled  faintly. 

"  The  beauties  of  America  are  on  a  different  scale,"  she 
said  ;  "  but  I  quite  agree  with  you  that  Eood  Castle  must 
be  a  lovely  spot.    You  have  never  been  there  ?" 

"No  ;  but  we  are  going  when  the  season  is  over.  I  can 
not  teU  how  the  prospect  delights  me." 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  the  duchess,"  said  Miss  Glynton; 
"naturally  enough,  you  love  her  home." 

"  The  duchess,"  cried  the  girl,  with  bright  eyes  ;  indeed 
I  do  love  her — ^I  think  there  is  no  one  like  her." 

"And  the  duke,  too,  is  most  kind,"  said  Miss  Glynton, 
looking  earnestly  at  the  fair,  frank,  young  face. 

"The  dike?"  said  Lady  Valentine,  while  her  face 
flushed  asd  her  eyes  brightened*    "  ^ou  will  laugh  at  m« 


TEQi  DUKE'a  SECRET.  2l5 

tnthout  doubt,  but  I  think  the  duke  is — just  the  one  most 
perfect  man  in  the  woild  ;  he  is  a  hero  among  other 
men." 

Over  the  most  perfect  lips  of  Miss  Glynton  came  the 
faintest  ripple  of  a  smile. 

"  I  know  your  secret  now,  Lady  Valentine,"  she  thought, 
''you  love  the  duke." 

Lady  Valentine,  unconscious  of  that  keen  scrutiny, 
went  on; 

"In  Nice,  where  I  lived  with  my  father,  there  is  a 
beautiful  picture  in  the  house  of  one  of  our  friends — it  is 
called  '  The  Martyrdom,  of  San  Sebastian,'  and  as  long  as 
I  remember,  the  face  of  that  San  Sebastian  was  my  model 
of  perfect  beauty;  strange  to  say,  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne 
resembles  it  exactly.  X  always  call  him  San  Sebastian  when 
we  are  qviite  alone." 

And  again  this  faint,  cold,  half  sad  smile  ripples  oyer 
ihe  beautiful  lips. 

"The  name  certainly  suits  him,"  she  said.  "San  Se- 
bastian. It  brings  the  idea  of  a  tall,  dark,  handsome,  mel- 
ancholy man  to  one's  mind — the  duke  has  a  fashion  of 
looking  half  tired,  half  melancholy  too.  I  shall  think  of 
him  as  San  Sebastian,  although  I  may  never  call  him  so." 

"In  the  picture,"  continued  Lady  Valentine,  "the  eyes 
have  a  searching  look,  as  though  among  the  crowd  the 
snar'.yr  looked  for  one  kind  face,  and  in  vain.  I  have  seen 
that  same  wonderful  expression  in  the  duke's  eyes  often 
and  often." 

"  Yet  he  has  lost  no  one  dear  or  near  to  him,  has  had 
no  soiTow  to  cloud  his  life,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  and  she 
glanced  keenly  at  the  fair,  fresh,  young  face  as  she  spoke. 

Lady  Valentine  did  not  answer ;  she  sat  quite  silent 
and  then  said,  thoughtfully  : 

"  No  one  escapes,  I  am  afraid.  I  wonder  sometimes 
what  my  sorrow  will  be,"  and  then  she  sighed  as  she 
remembered  that  the  greatest  trouble  life  holds  would  be 
hers  if  she  could  never  marry  the  man  she  loved. 

Then  there  was  a  stir  in  the  room,  and  the  gentlemen 
entered.  The  duchess  ceased  her  conversation — the 
ladies  forgot  the  fancy  fair. 

Miss  Glynton  saw  the  laillionaire  looked  anxiously 
round  the  room.    His  eyes  brightened  as  thej  fell  on  Hak 


216  THE  duke's  SEC5EET. 

pleasant,  laugliiiig  face  of  Lady  Belle  ;  he  went  to  her  ai 
once,  as  naturally  as  a  sailor  seeks  a  port  in  storm. 

Miss  Glynton  smiled  to  herself;  then  she  quietly  watched 
the  duke.  He  spoke  to  one  of  the  ladies;  his  eyes  falling 
on  the  fold  of  pale,  golden  brocade,  he  crossed  the  room 
and  went  to  her.  Lady  Yalentine  looked  up  at  him  with 
a  smile. 

"  What  do  you  think  Miss  Glynton  is  studying  ?'*  she 
asked. 

The  duke  drew  a  chair  near  to  them,  and  said  it  would 
be  impossible  to  guess,  that  the  study  of  ladies  was  so 
varied. 

"  Rood  Castle,"  cried  Lady  Valentine.  "  I  have  made 
Miss  Glynton  own  there  is  nothing  half  so  beautiful  in 
America." 

"  I  hope,"  he  said,  "  that  Miss  Glynton  may  one  day 
see  its  beauty  herself." 

She  raised  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him — by  no  means  a 
defiant  glance,  but  a  quiet,  steady,  searching  look  that 
puzzled,  baffled,  and  bewildered  him. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  she  said. 

And  he  thought  to  himself  that  he  must  be  mistaken, 
that  it  could  not  be  contempt  he  heard  in  the  voice. 

"  Lady  Viilentine,"  he  said,  "  will  you  sing  for  us  ?  I 
am  sure  Miss  Glynton  will  be  pleased  to  hear  you." 

"  I  am  sure  I  shall,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  with  a  well- 
pleased  smile. 

And  Lady  Yalentine,  always  above  all  affectation,  went 
to  the  piano,  and  the  duke  took  her  place  by  Miss  Glyn- 
ton's  side. 

CHAPTER  XXXYIL 

*'l  WILL    REFRESH   YOUR   MEMORY. ** 

LooEiKo  round  that  brilliant  apartment,  with  the  beauti- 
ful women  and  chivalrous-looking  men  grouped  pictur- 
esquely in  it.  Miss  Glynton  thought  she  had  never  seen  a 
more  brilliant  home  scene  than  this;  and  there  was  the 
duke,  who  had  waited  to  arrange  Lady  Valentine's  music* 
and  return  to  her  side.  He  was  unusually  silent — the 
strange  ideas  that  haunted  him  in  her  presence,  the 
curious,  subtle  attraction  she  had  for  him  was  in  filll 
force,  and  he  looked  at  her  with  a  vague  wonder  as  to 
what  it  was  in  her  that  touched  him  aa  no  other  woman 


THE  duke's  secret.  21. 

had  power  to  touch  him.  Then  through  the  room  rang 
the  sweetest  voice  that  he  had  ever  heard,  and  it  sung 
these  words: 

*'  It  oame  with  the  merry  May,  love, 

It  bloomed  with  the  summer  prime; 
In  a  djdng  year's  decay,  love. 

It  brightened  the  fading  time. 
I  thought  it  would  last  for  life,  love. 

But  it  went  with  the  winter  snow. 
Only  a  year  ago,  love. 

Only  a  year  ago. 

"'Twas  a  plant  with  a  deeper  root,  love. 

Then  the  blighting  Eastern  tree; 
For  it  grew  in  my  heart,  and  the  firuit,  love. 

Was  a  bitter  morsel  to  me. 
The  poison  is  yet  in  my  brEiin,  love, 

The  thorn  in  my  heart,  for  you  know, 
'Twas  only  a  year  ago,  love. 

Only  a  year  ago." 

Beautiful,  sad,  sweet  words — he  said  them  over  and  over 
again  to  himself — 

"  Only  a  year  ago,  love. 
Only  a  year  ago." 

His  young  wife  might  have  sung  that  sad,  sweet  lament 
when  he  so  cruelly  slighted  her.  They  had  only  loved 
each  other  a  year. 

"  The  poison  is  yet  in  my  brain  love, 

The  thorn  in  my  heart,  you  know."— 

aaurmured  Miss  Glynton.  "Those  are  very  beautiful 
words.  Do  many  people  live,  I  wonder,  with  poison  in  the 
fcrain  and  a  thorn  in  the  heart  ?" 

"  More  than  you  would  imagine,"  he  replied,  sadly.  "  I 
begin  to  think  myself  that  no  man  or  woman  lives  without 
his  or  her  hidden  trouble,  great  sorrow,  or  romance." 

"  I  have  long  been  sure  of  it,"  she  said  ;  and  more  than 
ever  he  wondered  what  mysterious  influence  this  beautiful 
stranger  had  over  him.  As  his  eyes  lingered  on  her  calm, 
grand  face,  the  words  came  over  and  over  again  to  him— 

"  Only  a  year  ago,  love. 
Only  a  year  ago." 

The  dead  love,  the  dead  passion  of  his  buried  youth, 
with  its  fair  hopes,  all  rose  before  him — the  ftrst  aweei. 


218  THE  duke's  secmh-. 

wild  love  of  his  youth  which  had  so  completely  engrossed 
him — he  had  forgotten  everything  but  the  girl  he  loved; 
the  sweet,  sad  memories  stirred  his  heart,  and  when  at 
length  Lady  Valentine's  song  ceased,  he  found  the  beau- 
tiful blue  eyes  of  the  American  looking  into  his  own.  She 
withdrew  her  glance,  rather  as  though  she  had  been 
studying  his  character  than  interested  in  him. 

Then  again,  clear,  fresh,  and  bright,  the  young  voice 
«ung: 

**  I  stand  by  the  river  where  both  of  us  stood, 
And  there  ii  but  one  shadow  to  darken  the  flood, 
And  the  path  leading  to  it,  where  both  used  to  pass, 
Has  \h6  step  of  but  one  to  take  dew  from  the  gratt  — 
One,  forlorn  since  that  day. 

**  The  flowers  of  tho  margin  are  many  to  see — 
None  stoops  at  my  bidding  to  pluck  them  for  me. 
The  bird  in  the  alder  sings  loudly  and  long; 
My  low  sound  of  weeping  disturbs  not  his  Bong, 
As  thy  vow  did  that  day. 

**  Go— be  sure  of  my  love,  of  that  treason  forgiven; 
Of  my  prayers,  by  the  blessing  they  win  thee  in  heaven; 
Of  my  grief — guess  the  length  of  the  sword  by  the  sheath's, 
By  the  silence  of  life,  more  pathetic  than  death's. 
Go — be  clear  of  that  day." 

Wonderful  words  I  they  seemed  to  pierce  his  heart  as 
he  heard  them  ;  and  looking  at  his  beautiful  companion, 
he  saw,  no  matter  how  she  strove  to  hide  it,  that  the  dark 
blue  eyes  were  fQled  with  tears.  He  could  hardly  beheve 
it  at  first,  that  this  brilliant,  proud  woman,  who  had 
seemed  so  cold,  so  passive,  so  far  away  from  human  in- 
terest, had  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  have  never  heard  a  more  beautiful  line  than  that," 
ehe  said,  as  though  she  would  fain  account  for  her  emo- 
tion— 

"By  the  silence  of  life,  more  pathetic  than  death." 

"  It  is  full  of  meaning,  and  I  am  sure  it  is  true.  I  have 
known  the  silence  of  some  lives  a  thousand  times  sadder 
than  the  blank  chill  silence  of  death." 

He  thought  of  the  silence  that  lay  like  a  shadow  over 
his  own  life,  and  he  thought  of  the  silence  that  lay  over 
the  life  and  fate  of  his  young  wife. 

The  silence  of  life  I    Ah  me !  what  volumes  might  b« 


THE  duke's  secret.  219 

written  of  that  strange  silence,  what  mysteries  it  hides, 
what  pain  it  conceals,  what  anguish  it  covers.  In  all 
creation  there  is  no  greater  manel  than  that  wonderful 
silence  of  life,  so  much  greater  and  grander  than  that  of 
death. 

The  duke  saw  that  Miss  Glynton  was  deeply  touched  at 
the  words. 

"I  shall  begin  to  think  soon,"  he  said,  "that  the  real 
life  of  people  is  the  life  not  seen." 

"  You  will  think  correctly,"  she  replied. 

Lady  Valentine  was  succeeded  at  the  piano  by  a  young 
lady  who  sang  a  Spanish  ballad,  martial  and  gay,  in  the 
most  superb  style,  and  he  watched  the  dark  blue  eyes  fill 
with  hght  and  brightnesa 

"  How  susceptible  she  is  to  the  influence  of  music !  " 
he  said  to  himself  ;  and  he  asked  her  if,  of  all  entertain- 
ments, she  did  not  prefer  the  opera. 

"It  is  just  what  I  can  imagine  you  would  prefer,"  he 
said,  "  you  seem  to  enjoy  music  so  much." 

"  It  is  the  way  in  which  I  ever  can  speak  my  real 
thoughts,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  you  do  sing,"  he  asked,  at  once. 

"Yes;  I  have  a  contralto  voice,"  she  replied.  "It  is 
unusual  I  believe  for  a  blonde  to  have  a  deep  contralto  ; 
they  go  generally  with  stately  brunettes."  She  looked 
up  with  a  slight  laugh  into  his  face  : 

"  You  are  going  to  ask  me  to  sing,"  she  said.  "  You  are 
wondering  what  my  voice  is  like,  and  if  I  sing  weU.  I  will 
sing  for  you — my  favorite  song — Tennyson's  '  Brook.'  I 
wonder  if  you  will  like  it  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  well  do  anything  else,"  he  replied,  and  he 
took  her  to  the  piano. 

There  was  silence  in  the  vast  and  magnificent  room 
when  that  superb  woman  stood  up  to  sing.  Lady  Valentine 
had  attracted  much  attention — Sliss  Glynton  seemed  to 
command  it;  she  stood  near  the  piano,  her  rich  dress  and 
trailing  laces  sweeping  the  ground,  her  beautiful  figure 
erect,  full  of  life,  grace,  and  ease,  the  beautiful  head  up- 
raised as  though  to  give  freedom  to  the  magnificent  voice. 

The  silence  that  followed  was  more  eloquent  than  any 
applause  in  words;  it  was  the  duchess  that  asked  the  grace 
of  yet  another  song. 

"From  your  voice  I  should  have  thought   jou   an 


220  THE  DUXX'S   SBCBET. 

Italian,"  said  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne.  It  is  only  from 
the  white-throated  daughters  of  the  sunny  south  that  one 
expects  to  hear  such  a  rich,  mellow  voice." 

Miss  Glynton  smiled  as  she  answered: 

"  I  was  nearly  twenty  years  old  before  1  knew  that  I  had 
a  voice,  and  then  I  found  it  out  quite  by  accident.  I  have 
treasured  it  ever  since." 

"  I  should  hope  so,"  replied  her  grace.  "  I  have  heard 
few  on  the  stage — and  none  off  it — that  equal  yours." 

They  drew  round  her — the  spell  of  music  dying  away — 
with  flattering  words  and  graceful  compliments;  they  said 
among  themselves  how  royally  generous  nature  had  been 
to  one  fair,  queenly  woman,  how  she  had  lavished  on  her 
gifts  of  body  and  mind — beauty  without  parallel  and  the 
voice  of  a  nightingale.  Society  and  the  gay  world  had 
not  for  many  years  known  such  a  queen. 

She  sung  once  more  to  please  the  duchess — a  sweet, 
simple  ballad  that  carried  the  hearts  of  her  listeners. 

"I  am  confirmed  in  my  ideas,"  said  Lady  Charteris;  "I 
have  always  believed  that  a  grand  voice  must  live  in  a 
grand  body.  I  can  not  imagine  a  superb  contralto  like 
that  coming  from  a  thin  frail,  or  fragile  woman — a  superb 
voice  requires  a  grand  physique.     To  my  mind  Madame 

S is  the  finest  singer  of  these  days,  and  she  has  the 

finest  frame." 

"  There  is  seme  truth  in  it,"  said  the  duchess.  "  Grise 
was  a  magnificent  woman;  I  do  not  remember  to  have 
seen  such  neck  and  arms.  She  was  statuesque — magnifi- 
cent!" 

"I  think,"  said  Lady  Charteris,  calmly,  "that  Miss 
Glynton  is  just  now  the  most  beautifxil  woman  in  Eng- 
land." 

It  was  a  moment  of  unutterable  triumph  for  the  queenly 
heiress  of  Hardress  Glynton.  On  every  face  admiration  of 
her,  and  tears  of  emotion  excited  by  her  singing,  were 
Been;  she  was  the  centre  of  all  observation  and  attention. 
As  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  looked  at  her,  she  said  to 
herself: 

"  If  I  could  but  see  such  a  woman  as  that  my  son's 
"wife,  no  matter  what  her  nationaUty  might  be,  I  should 
die  happy." 

Her  heart  was  full  of  longing.  Why  could  not  Ber- 
trand  do  as  other  men  did  ?    In  this  room  how  many  men 


THi  duke's  secret.  221 

would  have  given  anything  they  had  for  the  privilege  of 
being  able  to  woo  her  ?  There  was  something  peculiar, 
the  duchess  felt,  in  the  manner  of  the  beautiful  American, 
both  to  herself  and  the  duke  a  vague  intangible  some- 
iohing  she  could  not,  even  to  her  own  thoughts,  define. 

In  the  meantime  the  duke  had  led  Miss  Glynton  back 
to  the  comfortable  chair  she  had  occupied. 

"  Do  you  know  any  of  those  Scotch  ballads  ?"Jshe  asked 
him — "  the  old  border  ballads,  I  mean,  so  full  of  gay  and 
martial  music.     I  prefer  them  to  anything  else." 

"  Yes,  I  know  some  of  them  ;  my  mother  likes  that 
kind  of  music,  so  does  Lady  Valentine — strange  that  you 
should  have  the  same  taste.  There  is  nothing  that  Lady 
Valentine  enjoys  so  much  as  sitting  singing  all  those: 
grand  old  ballads — she  never  tires,  and  we  never  tire," 

"  I  do  not  see,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  suddenly,  "  why  all 
the  best  songs  should  be  about  love  ;  war  and  glory — ay, 
and  death — have  as  much  claim  to  music  as  love." 

"Do  you  think  so?" he  asked.  "It  seems  to  me  that 
love  and  music  are  akin." 

The  dark  blue  eyes  looked  proudly  with  clear  direct 
gaze  into  his. 

"You  speak  with  decision,"  she  said,  laughingly.  "Per- 
haps you  believe  in  Mrs.  Barrett  Browning's  beautiful' 
definition  of  the  word  'loving'?" 

"  I  do  not  remember  it,"  he  replied. 

"  Then  I  will  refresh  your  memory,  for  I  know  every 
word,"  and  then  she  recited  the  beautiful  words  in  a  voice 
he  never  forgot : 

**  Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all  day 
On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you; 
Unless  you  can  love  as  the  angels  may, 
■;  With  the  breath  of  heaven  betwixt  you; 

.*  Unless  you  can  dream  that  his  faith  is  fast, 

■     /•  through  behooving  and  unbehooving; 

Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is  past. 
Oh,  never  call  it  loving." 

There  was  no  falter  in  the  clear  voice,  no  shadow  in  the 
dark  blue  eyes  that  met  his  own,  no  embarrasment  on 
the  beautiful  face;  yet  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  had  an 
uncomfortable  sensation  that  she  knew  more  about  him 
and  hig  higtorj  than  any  stranger  could  know. 


222  THE  duke's  secret. 

He  had  not  died  when  his  dream  was  past;  on  tne  con- 
trary he  had  lived  and  enjoyed  himself  very  much;  was 
there  a  shadow  of  reproach  in  her  face  that  he  had  done 

go?  

CHAPTER  XXXVnL 

LAST  VAIiENTIKB's  JEAI/JUST. 

Thi  Duke  of  Castlemayne  retired  to  rest  that  evening 
with  his  mind  and  heart  full  of  the  beautiful  American; 
for  the  time  being  the  tragedy  that  lay  between  himself 
and  Lady  Valentine  was  almost  forgotten.  He  had  no 
thought  for  her  great  affection,  her  simple,  child-like  love 
for  him.  The  beautiful  American  seemed  to  have  taken 
possession  of  him.  He  was  astonished  to  find  what  a 
wonderful  sense  of  f amiUarity  he  had  near  her — as  though 
he  had  known  her  before,  and  every  sound  of  her  voice 
was  to  him  like  a  song  known  by  heart,  the  play  of  her 
magnificent  features,  the  clear,  direct  gaze  of  her  blue 
eyes,  the  graceful  curl  of  her  lips;  even  the  white  gemmed 
hands  seemed  hke  a  familiar  dream  to  him. 

"  I  shall  begin  to  think  that  I  have  been  to  America  in 
my  sleep,  and  have  met  its  fairest  representative  without 
waking,"  he  said  to  himself. 

It  was  his  custom  to  go  to  her  grace's  boudoir  to  wish 
her  good-night — there  was  no  son  in  England  so  attentive 
to  his  mother  as  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne.  Lady  Valen- 
tine usually  sat  with  her  grace  for  a  few  minutes  to 
discuss  whatever  had  been  the  evening's  entertainment, 
but  on  this  evening  she  was  not  present.  The  duchess 
said  she  had  gone  to  rest  with  a  headache — if  her  grace 
had  said  heart-ache  it  would  have  been  nearer  the  truth. 

The  duke  threw  himself  back  in  the  easy  chair  with  a 
heavy  sigh,  and  his  mother  looked  anxiously  at  him. 

"You  are  tired,  Bertrand,"  she  said,  gently,  with  that 
air  of  solicitude  no  face  save  a  mother's  ever  wears. 

"Not  only  tired,"  he  replied,  "but  I  am  perplexed. 
Miss  Glynton  haunts  me  like  a  German  ghost,  mother." 

"Miss  Glynton! — a  German  ghost! — my  dear  boy, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  All  my  life  I  have  laughed  at  what  people  call  occult 
influences,"  he  said.  "  I  have  never  believed  in  any  non^ 
sense  about  magnetism  or  the  electric  lufluence  of  ono 
j^xnon  over  ft;aQ^9?«    I  haT«  b«Uey«d  ^mk  Wu^a  tftf 


THX  DTTCE'S  SSCBET.  221 

result  or  morbid  imagination — but  I  am  beginning  to 
believe  in  them  after  aU." 

"  For  what  reason  ?  "  she  asked, 

"You  will  laugh  at  me,  I  know  ;  in  fact,  to  tell  you  the 
truth,  I  laugh  at  myself.  Still  it  is  quite  true  that  Miss 
Glynton  produces  a  most  peculiar  effect  upon  me.  When 
I  am  with  her  I  have  a  vague,  foolish,  nervous  sensation 
that  I  have  known  her  in  some  other  life  ;  I  know  you 
will  think  me  foohsh,  but  it  bewilders  me.  She  is 
almost  a  stranger  to  me,  yet  there  are  times  when  the 
sound  of  her  voice  and  the  play  of  her  features  are 
familiar  to  me — indeed,  so  familiar  as  to  give  me  a  curi« 
ous,  uncanny  feeling  about  her.  I  cannot  forget  her.  She 
haunts  me.     What  do  you  think  of  her  yourself?  " 

The  duchess  looked  thoughtful  If  her  son  could  not 
fall  in  love  with  Lady  Valentine  certainly  the  next  best 
thing  would  be  for  him  to  marry  this  millionaire's  heiress. 
She  said  to  herself  that  she  must  answer  that  question 
very  carefidly. 

"  I  think  her  certainly  the  most  beautiful  and  graceful 
— I  may  say  the  most  elegant  and  accomplished  woman 
I  have  ever  met ;  but  Hke  yourself,  I  find  something  strange 
about  her,  repressed  power  or  passion  of  some  kind  ; 
like  you,  too,  I  have  a  certain  sense  of  familiarity  with 
her  voice  and  features,  although  I  know  it  is  impossible 
that  we  have  ever  seen  her  until  this  season.  She  has 
not  been  in  England  until  now." 

"  It  must  be  a  fancy,"  said  the  duke  ;  "  there  can  not 
be  any  foundation  for  it,  yet  we  are  neither  of  us  fanci- 
fuL" 

"  Perhaps  you  admire  her  very  much,  Bertrand,  and 
that  is  why  she  haunts  you,"  said  the  duchess. 

"She  certainly  stands  quite  alone  in  the  world  of 
women  for  me,"  said  the  duke.  "  No  womar  living  has 
ever  given  me  such  curious  fancies  and  ideas  as  she  has  ; 
all  the  time  I  am  talking  to  her  my  mind  is  filled  with 
the  strangest  notions.  What  a  clear,  direct  glance  she 
has,  and  it  never  falters.  She  must  have  a  clear,  honest 
soul  ;  but  she  certainly  perplexes  me." 

The  duchess  sighed  even  more  deeply.  It  would  be  so 
hopeless  to  say  more  to  her  son — to  teU  him  that  if  he 
would  woo  he  might  probably  win  this  great  heiress.  She 
bad  learned  at  last  that  it  was  useless  talking  on  sueli 


^24  THE  duke's  secbet. 

matters  to  him.    But  that  sigh  struck  her  son's  heart ;  ht 
knew  quite  well  what  it  meant. 

Perhaps  few  men  in  London  felt  more  imhappy  than 
the  Puke  of  Castlemayne  that  night.  Look  where  he 
"would  there  was  no  gleam  of  light  or  hope  for  him. 
Where  was  his  lost  wife — ^fair,  sweet  Naomi?  His  beauti- 
ful young  kinswoman  had  given  him  the  whole  love  of  her 
life,  simply  as  a  child  gives  away  a  kiss  or  a  flower  ?  He 
remembered  how  the  sweet,  young  face  and  wistful  eyes 
had  followed  him  that  night  What  of  this  beautiful 
woman  whose  fair  presence  haunted  him  as  the  presence 
of  no  other  woman  had  done  ? 

He  was  powerless  to  help  himself;  he  was  chained  with 
those  fetters  no  human  power  can  Isreak;  he  was  a  man 
who  had,  perhaps,  the  need  of  a  wife  to  share  with  him 
his  honors  and  responsibilities;  his  mother's  earnest  wish 
influenced  him,  too.  As  he  stood  alone  in  his  room  he  said 
to  himself  that  he  would  give  half  of  his  fortune  if  he  could 
see  his  way  out  of  his  difficulty — if  he  could  hear  some- 
thing of  Naomi  and  her  son,  Then  again  he  hesitated; 
true,  Lady  Valentine  loved  him,  and  he  inadvertently  let 
her  lavish  the  whole  love  of  her  heart  on  him;  then,  again, 
there  was  this  beautiful  American,  who  had  so  strange  an 
influence  over  him. 

"  There  must  have  been  some  strange  planets  in  con- 
junction when  I  was  bom,"  thought  the  duke.  "  I  seem 
to  be  most  unfortimate  ;  all  the  things  I  undertake  go 
"wrong."  And  even  when  saying  it  he  admitted  that  the 
wrong  was  occasioned  by  his  own  fault. 

"  What  could  money  do  after  all  ?  It  could  not  purchase 
freedom  for  him;|it  could  not  bring  any  intelligence  of  his 
lost  wife,  it  could  not  solve  his  doubts  and  fears  about 
Lady  Valentine;  it  could  not  solve  the  mystery  of  this  fair, 
queenly  woman  whose  calm,  clear  eyes  seemed  to  read  his 
very  souL  Money — why  it  seemed  worse  than  useless  ir* 
the  presence  of  such  difficulties  as  these. 

Far  into  the  night  he  sat,  thinking  of  the  light  that 
ahone  in  her  eyes  when  she  uttered  these  words: 

"Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is  past, 
Oh,  never  call  it  loving." 

What  had  that  look  in  her  eyes  meant  ?  Did  she  think 
he  had  never  loved  any  one  at  all,  or  having  loved  that  his 
loYthadbeeu  -weak?    She  had  meant  iomething,  auc^ 


THE  DnEE*S  SECBET.  225 

an  expiession  had  not  come  into  her  eyes  for  nothing. 
He  dreamed  of  her  all  night,  and  rose  unrested  and  unre- 
freshed. 

Lady  Valentine  was  in  the  breakfast-room  when  he  went 
down,  and  his  heart  smote  him  when  he  saw  her  sweet  pale 
face.  He  remembered  how  she  had  sprung  to  meet  him 
with  bright  eyes  and  fairest  blushes,  how  she  had  greeted 
him  with  loving  simple  words.  Ah,  the  woman's  soul — 
all  pain  and  suffering — ^had  come  to  her;  she  was 
Undine  awakened  from  her  J'^ng  sleep  to  a  life  that  is  all 
sorrow. 

She  loved  him,  and  she  was  unhappy;  if  she  had  never 
learned  to  love  him  she  would  never  have  been  unhappy. 
He  did  not  understand  himself,  he  did  not  know  his  own 
heart  or  mind,  but  his  heart  smote  him  when  he  saw  how 
pale  and  sad  that  fair  young  face  was.  There  was  unusual 
tenderness  in  his  manner  when  he  bade  her  good-morn- 
ing; the  girl  looked  up  at  him  with  shadowed  eyes. 

"  You  have  lost  your  roses  this  morning,  Valentine,"  he 
said;  "  we  had  better  go  in  search  of  some,  late  hours  and 
warm  rooms  are  bad  for  you." 

"The  hours  were  late,  but  the  rooms  were  not  too 
warm,"  she  said. 

He  touched  the  pale  face  caressingly  with  his  hand,  but 
she  drew  back  from  him  with  a  gesture  of  pride. 

"  Do  not  be  kind  to  me,  San  Sebastian,"  she  said:  "  I 
do  not  deserve  it." 

"Why,  what  dc>es  this  humility  mean,  Valentine?  "Why 
do  you  not  deserve  kindness  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  after  a  charming  fashion. 

"  I  may  just  as  well  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I  was  wicked 
last  nigbt;  not  naughty,  but  wicked." 

He  looked  much  amused  at  the  idea  of  wickedness  in 
one  s^  young  and  fair. 

"  I  don't  think  you  know  what  the  word  wicked  means, 
Valentine,"  he  said,  gently.  He  covdd  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  drawing  that  fair  head  nearer  to  him,  but 
she  looked  up  again. 

"Do  not  be  kind  to  me,  San  Sebastian;  you  will  not  be 
angry  with  me  when  I  tell  you.  I  must  tell  you,  for  you 
would  be  quite  sure  to  find  it  out." 

"  Then  tell  me,"  he  said,  laughingly,  "  what  made  yoa 
wicked  last  nighty  Valentine  ?" 


22l>  rHE  duke's  sECMif. 

"  Miss  Glynton,"  she  answered,  quickly,  *-  X  was  quit*, 
jealous  of  her — t  could  not  help  it.  "Sou  must  be  angry 
if  you  will.  I  was  jealous.  You  do  know  how  dift"eren'<: 
you  are  with  her;  you  look  as  though  she  had  magnetized 
you — and — I  heard  what  people  said.*' 

"  What  did  they  say,  Valentine  f' 

"  Many  things  that  angered  me — they  said  you  wew  u 
handsome  couple." 

"  That  was  not  my  fault,  ValeBtine.     I  did  not  say  so."' 

**  Lady  Charteris  said  she  would  make  the  most  splendid 
duchess  in  England  ;  and  some  one  else — I  forgot  who  it 
was — that  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  would  be  thankful 
even  for  an  American  daughter-in-law. ' 

*'  That  would  have  been  a  terrible  blow  to  my  mother 
had  she  heard  it,"  he  said,  laughingly. 

"  Hearing  all  these  things,"  continued  Lady  Valentine, 
"I  looked  at  you,  and  do  you  know,  San  Sebastian,  I  was 
just  a  little  startled." 

••  At  what  ?"  he  asked,  briefly. 

"  Something  in  your  manner  to  her  quite  different  to  any 
one  else,  and  then  '-I  was  jealous.  Ah,  my  dear,"  she  con- 
tinued, with  earnest  pathos,  "  I  can  give  you  up  for  a  real 
choice,  but  not  for  a  fancy.  I  can  love  you  and  help  you 
as  long  as  I  live,  -out  I  can  not  stand  by  and  see  you  make 
love  to  others." 

"  I  did  not,"  ftaid  the  duke. 

"  It  looked  very  much  like  it,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 

"  Then  appear«Jl^es  were  against  me,"  he  said.  "  I  had 
— ah,  Valentine,  you  know  it — I  had  not  thought  of 
making  love.    Vouhave  no  need  to  be  jealous." 

He  took  the  little  white  hand  she  held  out  to  him  and 
pressed  it  AL,  why  could  he  not  clasp  the  girlish  form 
in  his  arms,  and  kiss  the  roses  back  into  the  pale,  sweet 
face." 

"  You  need  never  be  jealous,  Valentine." 

She  looked  at  Wm  with  sweet,  shy  affection. 

"You  know  iny  secret,  San  Sebastian,"  she  said.  "But 
you  must  not  torture  me." 

And  there  was  no  time  to  say  more,  for  the  duchess 
t&tered  the  r«oxi^ 


THE  duke's  secret.  227 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

LEAKNINa   TO   HATE. 

The  fashionable  world  was  all  astir  over  the  fancy  fair. 
Of  all  the  charities  the  hospital  for  children  stood  just  at 
that  time  in  the  highest  favor.  Royalty  patronized  it, 
.  princesses  were  interested  in  it,  and  went  out  of  their 
way  in  a  fashion  more  kindly  even  than  usual  to  help  it; 
yet,  and  despite  of  all  the  help,  funds  were  most  urgently 
needed,  the  cry  of  the  children  had  been  heard  over  the 
land,  and  it  was  found  that  a  new  ward  was  absolutely 
needed,  besides  money  for  many  other  indispensible  pur- 
poses. 

The  ladies  of  fashion,  following  the  illustrious  example 
set  them  by  the  most  illustrious  of  princesses,  resolved 
upon  going  to  the  rescue.  Charity  is  a  beautiful  virtue, 
but  when  it  is  combined  with  amusement  it  becomes  irre- 
sistible. To  help  the  children's  hosj^ital  was  in  itself  a 
pleasure;  but  to  combine  that  pleasure  with  the  power  of 
exhibiting  some  of  the  finest  costumes  invented  by  Elise 
or  Worth,  was  almost  more  than  human. 

A  committee  of  ladies,  most  of  them  pretty  young 
married  women  and  recognized  belles  of  society,  was 
formed,  and  the  result  may  be  imagined.  A  grand  fancy 
fair  was  to  be  given,  and  the  Duke  of  Mild  may  offered 
the  use  of  his  magnificent  gardens  at  Twickenham  for  the 
purpose — an  offer  most  gratefully  accepted.  The  Duchess 
of  Mildmay  was  an  invalid,  unable  to  take  any  share  in 
the  good  work.  She  was  staying  at  Torquay,  and  in  her 
absence  the  ladies  of  the  committee  asked  the  Duchess  of 
Castlemayne  to  head  the  undertaking.  At  first  she  felt 
inclined  to  refuse,  but  she  listened  eventually  to  the  per° 
suasions  of  her  son. 

"I  am  afraid,"  she  said  to  him,  half  apologetically, 
" that  my  notions  are  somewhat  old-fashioned;  I  cannot 
imagine  even  for  the  most  benevolent  purpose  in  the 
world  a  princess  playing  the  part  of  a  shopwoman." 

"  This  is  a  narrow  view  to  take  of  it,"  replied  the  duke. 
•*  I  think  no  princess — be  she  great  or  mighty  as  she  may 
■ — could  do  a  better,  kindUer  deed.  I  see  no  loss  of  dig- 
nity in  it;  on  the  contrary,  a  great  princess  giving  her 
ttine  and  interest  to  the  suffering  "children  of  the  nation 


328  THE  duke's  secret. 

is,  I  thini,  one  of  the  most  beautifixl  ideas  of  the  world. 
I  should  be  well  pleased,  dear  mother,  if  you  would  take 
the  matter  in  hand." 

The  wish  of  her  idolized  son  was  sufficient  The 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  announced  herself  as  Lady 
President,  and  the  whole  business  was  complete. 

Dickens  himself  would  have  reveled  in  the  meetings  of 
the  ladies'  committee;  how  many  ladies  wished  to  speak 
at  once,  how  many  clung  to  their  own  ideas  and  refused 
to  listen  to  any  other;  each  one  having  an  idea  that 
every  one  and  everything  must  give  way  to  her. 

One  of  the  most  important  questions  asked  was  should 
the  professional  beauties  be  invited  to  take  a  stall;  pubUc 
opinion  was  divided,  the  ladies  felt  that  such  an  attrac- 
tion would  almost  double  their  funds,  yet  what  attention 
would  even  the  prettiest  of  them  meet  with  if  the  beauties 
were  present.  Lady  Charteris  told  in  a  plaintive  voice 
some  sad  stories  of  the  last  fancy  fair  in  which  her  ser- 
vices had  been  enlisted. 

"  We  had  three  professional  beauties  there,"  she  said, 
"and  I  don't  think  the  public  even  saw  any  one  else  ;  the 
money  they  made  was  something  marvelous.  I  saw  them 
selling  rosebuds  at  a  guinea  each." 

"  If  they  really  influence  the  funds,  by  all  means  let  us 
invite  them,"  said  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne.  "  It  is 
money  we  want,  and  we  must  t£ike  the  best  opportunity 
for  making  it." 

A  speech  so  very  much  to  the  point,  aiwi  so  sensible 
that  it  produced  a  great  effect.  Letters  of  invitation  were 
dispatched  to  Mrs.  Trelawney  and  Mrs.  Dulwich,  asking 
each  to  preside  over  a  stall;  the  same  invitation  was  sent 
to  Miss  Glynton,  to  Lady  Valentine  Arden,  and  other 
ladies  whose  names  were  well  known.  To  the  surprise 
of  all  Miss  Glynton  declined.  She  was  willing  to  help  in 
any  way  but  that ;  but  she  declined  the  staU. 

"  I  am  not  surprised,"  said  the  duchess,  when  she  read 
the  note  ;  "  I  did  not  think  Miss  Glynton  would  take 
a  stall ; "  and  in  her  own  heart  the  duchess  highly 
approved  the  decision,  and  liked  the  American  all  the 
better  for  what  she  chose  to  believe  was  her  pride. 

Lady  Valentine  was  delighted  ;  she  regained  some  of 
her  color  and  spirits.  All  kinds  of  pleasure  was  so  new 
to  her,  and  this  seemod  a  particularly  pleasant  kind.    The 


TflS  DUKE'S  SECBET.  229 

duKe  had  been  very  attentive  to  her ;  her  pale,  sweet 
face  and  beautiful  ejes  had  touched  him  ;  the  frank, 
child-like  confession  of  jealousy  which  she  had 
made  had  touched  him,  too — had  made  him  more  im- 
patient for  news  of  lost  Naomi.  If  he  could  hear  some- 
thing certain  about  her  and  could  free  himself  from  the 
curious  inHuence  that  the  beautiful  American  had  over 
bim,  he  would  take  care  that  Lady  Valentine  never 
looked  sad  again.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  was  not 
exactly  what  would  be  called  in  love  with  her,  but  he  did 
love  her,  and  could  have  spent  his  life  happily  with  her. 
It  was  rather,  perhaps,  the  affection  of  an  elder  brother 
for  his  sister  than  of  a  lover  for  his  love  ;  but  she  loved 
biTn  with  her  whole  heart,  and  he  knew  it. 

"  Are  you  going  to  be  kind  to  me  over  the  fancy  fair, 
San  Sebastian  ?  "  she  asked  him.     "  Shall  you  help  me  ?  " 

"  I  am  kind  over  everything  to  you,  Valentine,  and  I 
will  help  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"I  want  a  pretty  stall,"  she  continued.  "I  think  I 
should  like  flowers,  nothing  but  flowers  *  growing  and 
blooming;'  ^ov^evs  in.  jardinieres,  in  bouquets;  single 
flowers  and  every  variety.  That  would  make  a  pretty 
stall,  and  please  me  better  than  anything  else.  Do  you 
agree  with  me  ?  " 

'•'Yes,  quite.  You  have  a  face  that  will  just  suit  the 
flowers,  Valentine;  it  will  be  the  best  thing  you  can  do." 

"  Miss  Glynton  has  declined  taking  a  stall,"  said  Lady 
Valentine,  with  a  quick  look  at  the  handsome,  melan- 
choly face  of  the  duke. 

"  I  could  not  picture  Miss  Glynton  even  with  the  most 
beautiful  stall  that  could  be  invented,"  he  replied. 

"  And  yet  you  can  picture  me,"  she  replied,  hastily. 

"  I  tell  you  the  flowers  will  suit  your  face,  Valentine, 
and  you  will  suit  them." 

"  Why  shoTild  they  not  Miss  Glynton  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you,  dear;  only  that  she  seems  to  me 
one  of  those  born  to  be  a  queen  and  nothing  else." 

"  There  are  no  queens  in  America,"  retorted  Lady  Val- 
entine. 

"Wherever  there  are  women  there  will  be  queenSj 
chosen  by  nature,"  said  the  duke  ;  and  then  he  paused, 
for  her  face  had  paled,  and  there  was  a  mist  in  the  beau" 
tdful  eyeg. 


280  THE  duke's  secbet. 

"Which  kind  of  women  do  you  like  best,  those  whom 
flowers  suit  or  those  who  are  queens  by  nature  ?  " 

"  I  think  both  perfect  in  their  way,"  and  Lady  Valen- 
tine sighed.  She  had  never  been  jealous  before,  she 
had  never  known  the  fire,  and  pain,  and  terror  of  the 
most  tender  passion  that  ever  entered  the  heart  of  man. 
Miss  Glynton  was  the  only  woman  she  had  ever  seen 
who  had  attracted  the  duke,  to  all  others  he  was  indif- 
ferent. She  could  not  in  her  heart  say  that  the  duke  was 
as  indifferent  to  the  heiress  as  to  the  rest. 

"  Miss  Glynton  wUl  be  there  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  and 
having  no  stall  she  will  be  at  liberty  to  walk  about  and 
criticize." 

"We  shall  all  have  that  privilege,"  laughed  the 
duke. 

"  I  am  almost  sorry  now,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  with 
delicious  naivete,  "  that  I  have  a  stall.  I  shall  be  com- 
pelled to  remain  there  while  you  wOl  be  showing  every- 
thing that  is  beautiful  to  Miss  Glynton." 

He  laughed  at  the  picture. 

"  You  will  see  that  I  am  better  than  you  think,  Valen- 
tine, and  I  will  keep  my  word." 

The  next  few  days  were  all  excitement.  It  reached  its 
climax  when  one  morning  the  duchess  received  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Glynton,  inclosing  a  check  for  five  hundred  pounds, 
which  he  placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  committee  for  the 
funds  of  the  Children's  Hospital,  and  in  which  he  regretted 
that  Miss  Glynton  could  not  accept  their  invitation  and 
wished  them  every  success. 

"  That  is  princely  generosity,"  said  the  duchess,  with  a 
pleased  smile.  "Mr.  Glynton  is  one  of  nature's  noble- 
men." 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  him,"  said  the  duke,  with  unaffected 
earnestness,  "  very  kind." 

The  news  was  received  with  enthusiasm  at  the  ladies' 
committee  meeting.  Mr.  Glynton  was  praised  and  com- 
phmented,  and  the  universal  opinion  was  that  the  whole 
affair  would  be  a  great  success.  Lady  Valentine  was  the 
only  one  who  was  not  enthusiastic  in  the  millionaire's 
praise. 

"  Five  hundred  pounds  seem  a  great  deal,"  she  said  to 
ibe  duchess,  "  but  it  is  not  much  for  a  rich  man  like  him. 


'  THE  DUKE'S  SECRET.  231 

Pei"iiaps  lie  thought  it  would  purchase  for  him  an  admis- 
Bion  into  circles  where  at  present  he  is  not  admitted." 

The  duchess  looked  up  in  haughty  wonder. 

"Valentine,"  she  said,  "  that  is  the  most  unkind  thing  I 
have  ever  heard  you  say  of  any  creature." 

"Has  it  vexed  you?"  cried  the  girl,  kissing  the  white 
hand  of  the  duchess. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,"  she  repUed;  "it  is  an  unkind  construc- 
tion of  a  generous  action." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry;  sorry,  you  understand,  for  having 
vexed  you,  but  not  for  my  idea,    I  can  not  help  that." 

"  You  must  not  repeat  it,  Valentine,"  said  her  grace. 

"  I  will  not,"  promised  Lady  Valentine. 

"I  thought,  my  dear,  that  you  seemed  to  like  Miss  Glyn« 
ton,"  said  the  duchess. 

"So  I  do,"  replied  the  girl;  but  she  did  not  add  that 
lately  she  had  learned  to  hate  with  almost  deadly  hatred 
the  beauty  which  seemed  to  draw  the  duke  away  from 
her. 

Throughout  the  season  they  had  gone  continually  into 
society,  and  they  had  met  some  of  the  most  beautiful 
women  in  England,  and  she  had  never  found  out  what  the 
sensation  of  jealousy  was  like.  She  knew  it  now;  her  clear 
eyes  and  quick  senses  told  her  that  in  this  woman's  man- 
ner there  was  something  strange — that  she  had  a  weird 
influence  over  the  duke;  and  she  could  not  understand 
what  else  it  could  be  unless  it  was  the  dawn  of  love. 

CHAPTEB  XL. 

AT  THE  FAIB. 

The  day  dawned  brightly  on  which  the  fancy  fair  was  to 
be  held.  It  was  as  though  nature  knew  Heaven  blessed 
a  good  deed.  The  sun  shone,  as  it  seldom  shines  in  Eng- 
land, with  mellow,  beautiful  warmth — the  warmth  without 
heat;  which  is  so  pleasant.  The  sky  was  a  deep,  dark  blue, 
with  a  few  graceful  white  clouds  that  seemed  to  float 
lightly  between  earth  and  sky;  summer  beauty  lay  all  over 
the  land,  the  green  boughs  of  the  green  trees  rustled  in 
the  silent,  southern  winds;  the  green  leaves  rippled  in  the 
BunUt  air,  the  flowers  were  all  abloom,  the  hedges  were 
covered  with  wild  roses,  the  green  grass  was  filled  with 
buttercups  and  daisies,  the  birds  sung  aa  though  eveiy 


232  THE  duke's  secret. 

one  of  tbem  had  separately  and  individually  lost  its  senses 
through  joy. 

Even  the  most  fashionable  ladies  looked  and  felt  very 
devout  over  the  weather.  More  than  one  pair  of  blue 
eyes  was  piously  raised  to  the  blue  skies,  while  its  owner 
thanked  Heaven  for  this  "  really  charming  day."  It  may 
be  that  the  ladies'  committee  went  even  further,  and  be- 
lieved it  a  small  tribute  to  their  own  goodness  and 
virtue. 

The  magnificent  grounds  of  the  Duke  of  Mildmay  had 
never  been  seen  to  greater  advantage  ;  they  sloped  down 
to  the  very  banks  of  the  river,  the  stream  was  unusually 
broad  just  there,  and  formed  a  miniature  bay  ;  needless 
to  say  that  a  picturesque  boat-house  had  been  built  there, 
and  that  two  beautiful  pleasure  boats  were  always  in 
readiaess — the  "Water  Lily"  and  the  "Kiver  Queen." 
The  Duke  of  Mildmay  had  often  been  envied  the  posses- 
sion of  this  magnificent  villa.  It  was  known  as  Eiver 
Reach  ;  he  would  rather  have  parted  with  his  family  seat 
than  his  villa  on  the  Thames. 

The  trees  were  matchless — grand  old  oaks,  magnificent 
cedars,  graceful  ash-trees,  silver  and  copper  birches,  inter- 
spersed with  tall  larches  and  graceful  limes.  The  whole 
domain  had  been  given  up  to  the  occasion;  flags  were 
flying  from  the  pretty  boat-house,  the  pleasure-boats  were 
all  ready  for  use,  with  gay  awnings  and  cushions;  three 
bands  of  music  were  placed  in  different  parts  of  the 
grounds,  and  the  white  tents,  each  holding  two  or  three 
stalls,  were  placed  under  the  trees.  It  was  as  pretty  as 
fairy-land.  The  most  popular  of  all  the  refreshment  tents 
was  presided  over  by  Mrs.  Dulwich,  with  a  perfect  bevy 
of  younger  beauties;  Mrs.  Trelawney  had  a  stall  of  superb, 
ripe  fruit,  perhaps  the  most  elegant  and  attractive  table 
there;  picturesque  masses  of  green  and  purple  grapes, 
pineapple,  peaches,  apricots,  with  every  fruit  that  grows, 
beautifully  arranged.  Then  came  the  royal  stalls,  mag- 
nificently fitted,  presided  over  by  the  most  noble  and  win- 
some ladies  of  the  land.  Then  Lady  Valentine's  magnifi- 
cent arrangement  of  flowers.  The  duke's  words  were 
quite  true — she  suited  them — her  sweet  face  bending  over 
them  was  the  fairest  flower  of  all.  The  e'ite  of  London 
were  gathered  there,  all  that  was  most  fashionable,  most 
•legant,  and  most  beautiful.     Over    all — over  the  fair 


THE  duke's  seceet.  233 

feces  of  the  ladies,  and  their  rich  dresses,  over  the  white 
tents  and  their  magnificent  stalls,  the  beautiful  sun  shone 
with  its  golden  light,  and  the  sweet  summer  breeze 
whispered  as  sweet  as  the  music  itself. 

The  sun  had  seldom  shone  upon  a  more  brilliant,  and 
never  on  a  more  beautiful  scene.  The  beauties  were  in 
great  force.  Mrs.  Dulwich  wore  a  dress  ot  old  gold,  with 
rich,  trailing  Spanish  lace  ;  Mrs.  Trelawney  an  exquisifd 
combination  of  cream  color  and  rich  amber  ;  Lady  Valfc] 
tine  a  costume  of  white  and  red  roses.  She  looked  aib 
young  and  as  fair  as  spring  itself.  The  Duchess  of 
Castlemayne  was  attired  in  the  most  exquisite  taste.  Such 
a  bevy  of  beautiful  and  well-dressed  women  had  rarely 
been  gathered  before. 

The  duke  had  kept  his  promise.  He  drove  the  two 
ladies  down,  and  did  all  in  his  power  to  help  Lady 
Valentine. 

All  the  pretty  flirtations  and  comedies  of  the  day  came 
to  the  service.  Lady  Belle  Chambers,  in  an  excellent 
costume  of  pale  volet,  was  there,  and  the  moment  that 
Mr.  Glynton  saw  her  he  said  to  himself,  with  the  single 
exception  of  Pet,  she  was  the  handsomest  woman  present. 

He  made  his  way  to  her  at  once,  and  was  more  kindly 
received  than  usual. 

The  story  of  the  check  for  the  hospital  had  reached 
Lady  Belle,  and  had  charmed  her ;  she  delighted  in 
generosity. 

"  Shall  I  have  the  happiness  of  taking  you  round  to  see 
the  different  tents  ?"  he  asked  ;  and  Lady  Belle  smiled 
compliance. 

" Miss  Glynton  has  no  stall,"  she  said;  "we  will  go  to 
Lady  Valentine  Arden's  first.  I  want  some  flowers.  Why, 
the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  is  with  her — and  who  is  that  ? 
It  must  be  handsome  Sir  Harry  Bellairs.  Decidedly  we 
will  go  there  first." 

Lady  Valentine's  face  brightened  when  she  saw  Lady 
Belle. 

"Are  you  going  to  be  my  first  customer?"  she  asked. 
"I  am  so  glad;  I  feel  nervous,  and  am  afraid  of  making 
mistakes.  Which  of  my  lovely  flowers  shall  you  buy,  Lady 
Belle?" 

"I  had  hoped  for  the  honor  of  being  the  first  pui> 
tktiaer,"  said  the  millionaire,  in  an  injured  tone  of  Toiot* 


204  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  I,"  said  the  diike,  "  have  been  hoping  for  the  samt 
honor." 

"And  I,"  said  handsome  Sir  Harry,  in  a  tone  of  resigna- 
tion, "  have  been  hngering  here  ever  since  the  flowers  ap- 
peared." 

"  Oh,  Sir  Harry,"  began  Lady  Valentine.  But  he  inter- 
rupted her  with  a  smile  and  a  bow. 

"Indeed,  Lady  Valentine,  I  have  set  my  heart  on  that 
choice  white  rose ;  it  is  for  sale,  of  course  ?" 

Lady  Valentine's  fair  face  flushed  rosy  red.  She  hastily 
drew  the  pretty  bud  to  herself,  and  turning  to  the  duke 
said  : 

"  This  is  the  very  one  you  selected  ;  you  said  that  it 
was  the  most  beautifully  formed  bud  of  all.  I  can  not  sell 
it — you  wanted  it." 

She  had  no  more  idea  that  she  was  revealing  her  secret 
than  she  had  of  flying.  Lady  Belle  smiled  in  spite  of  her- 
self, and  the  millionaire  looked  amused.  Handsome  Sir 
Harry  felt  a  sudden  inclination  to  put  some  one  to  death, 
but  he  did  not  know  who  that  some  one  was  to  be. 

"  If  you  can  seU  the  rosebud,  do  so,"  said  the  duke, 
feeling  rather  embarrassed. 

"  I  would  not  sell  it  on  any  consideration  if  you  would 
really  like  it,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 

"  Nor  would  I,"  said  handsome  Sir  Harry,  with  a  dark 
frown,  "  under  those  circumstances,  offer  to  buy  it." 

She  looked  up  at  him  quickly.  That  the  duke,  his 
wishes  and  desires  should  be  first  with  her,  was  so  com- 
pletely natural ;  she  could  not  see  how  it  could  be  other- 
wise ;  it  was  the  pain  in  Sir  Harry's  voice  that  awoke  her 
attention. 

"  You  shall  be  my  first  customer,"  she  said,  "  and  I  will 
find  you  the  prettiest  flower  ;  but  this  white  bud  was 
really  for  the  duke." 

"  See  the  conquering  hero  come,"  quoted  Lady  Belle, 
while  Sir  Harry  said: 

"  "We  must  of  course  yield  to  the  duke." 

The  duke  himself  longed  to  give  him  the  white  bud, 
but  chivalry  forbade  it. 

"  Look,  Sir  HaiTy,"  cried  Lady  Valentine  ;  "  here  is  a 
beautiful  spray  of  jjardenia;  you  shall  have  that.  The 
price  is  marked.  There,  that  is  my  first  sale — wish  m* 
•Udcess,  Lady  Bell*." 


THE  duke's  SECBE'x.  235 

**I  deserve  something  to  soothe  my  wounded  feelings," 
said  Sir  Harry. 

"I  can  not  give  you  a  flower;  they  all  are,  even  leaves 
and  buds,  for  sale,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  give  me  a  kind  word,"  he  said,  promptly,  "  that 
will  be  even  better." 

"  I  do  not  know  what  to  say,  only  that  I  am  sorry  I 
could  not  give  you  the  bud  you  wanted,  and,  I  am  pleased 
with  what  you  have  purchased." 

"  There,"  cried  Lady  Belle,  "  that  is  a  very  handsome 
omende,  Sir  Harry;  you  ought  to  be  perfectly  satisfied." 

"  So  I  am,"  he  replied,  but  he  showed  no  signs  of  giving 
up  his  place  then. 

Mr.  Grlynton  grew  impatient ;  he  wanted  a  very  beau- 
tiful bouquet  for  Lady  Belle.  Superb  as  they  were,  he 
would  have  liked  something  even  better  :  there  was  one 
most  beautiful,  delicate  spray  of  liUes  of  the  valley  with 
white  heath  and  maiden-hair  fern  ;  it  pleased  Lady  Belle, 
and  the  millionaire  presented  it  with  the  best  grace  in 
the  world.  She  accepted  it,  and  it  seemed  to  him  a  very 
good  augury  for  another  offer  which  he  longed  to  make. 

As  the  morning  wore  on  the  ground  filled.  The  fair 
was  a  most  brilliant  success.  The  refreshment  tent  and 
the  fruit  stall  were  great  objects  of  attraction,  but  the 
beauties  did  not  carry  off  the  palm.  There  were  many 
persons  who  preferred  the  fair,  fresh  loveliness  of  Lady 
Valentine,  others  the  stately  beauty  of  Miss  Glynton. 
Surely  there  never  had  been  such  a  quantity  of  flowers 
sold.  Lady  Valentine  had  not  one  moment's  leisure,  and 
what  was  more  delightful  still,  the  pretty  little  frilled 
basket  which  did  duty  for  a  purse  was  almost  full. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  you  ought  to  go  away,"  she  said,  more 
than  once  to  Sir  Harry,  who  persisted  in  standing  near 
the  corner  of  the  stall.  "  I  am  sure  the  committee  wlU 
scold  me,  Sir  Harry,"  she  pleaded,  but  he  was  more  like 
a  sentinel. 

"  They  may  scold,  but  they  can  not  do  that  until  the  fair 
is  over.  How  ungrateful  you  are  to  me,  Lady  Valentine, 
when  I  am  doing  my  best  to  help  you." 

He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  so  long  as  the  duke 
stayed  he  would  stay. 

Then  they  observed  something  like  a  commotion  ;  people 
fieenie4  to  be  looking  all  in  one  direction. 


236  THE  DUIE*8  SECllT. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Lady  Valentine  ;  and  Sir  Harry, 
returning  quietly  to  his  place,  said  : 

"  It  is  Miss  Glynton,  and  every  one  is  trying  to  look  at 
her." 

Lady  Valentine's  eyes  went  straight  to  the  duke's  face. 
How  could  he  say  he  was  indifferent  to  this  beautiful 
woman  when  his  face  had  flushed  at  the  very  mention  of 
her  name — ^not  only  flushed,  but  had  grown  conscious 
and  embarrassed. 

Sir  Harry  followed  her  glance,  and  took  in  the  situation 
in  a  moment.  Lady  Valentine  was  jealous  of  the  beautiful 
American  because  the  duke  liked  her. 

"  I  am  sure  I  am  right,"  he  thought,  and  he  was  pleased 
to  think  that  she  should  see  all  the  lovely  women  in  the 
world  had  not  power  to  draw  his  attention  for  one  moment 
from  her. 

CHAPTEE  XLL 

LOVE    ON     THE    WATER. 

A  STATELY  beautiful  group  of  women  made  their  way  io 
Lady  Valentine's  stall  The  duchess  was  desirous  of  see- 
ing how  her  protegee  succeeded.  Lady  Charteris,  Miss 
Glynton,  and  several  gentlemen  were  in  attendance,  and 
the  duchess  wondered  why  the  fair  young  face  bending 
over  the  flowers  grew  suddenly  pale  and  pained;  she 
felt  rather  surprised,  too,  at  finding  Handsome  Harry  in 
attendance. 

They  stood  face  to  face  now,  the  lovely  young  girl  in 
her  dainty  fairness  amid  the  beautiful  blossoms,  with 
some  faint  sense  of  what  was  dawning  in  the  hearts  of 
both. 

"Bertrand,"  said  the  duchess,  "I  am  glad  you  have 
been  helping  Lady  Valentine;  if  you  have  a  little  leisure 
Miss  Glynton  would  very  much  enjoy  a  row  on  the  river. 
I  have  been  telling  her  what  an  excellent  oarsman  you  are.* 

"  I  am  quite  at  Miss  Glynton's  service,"  he  replied, 
with  a  low  bow. 

"A  row  on  the  river!"  cried  Lady  Valentine.  "There,  I 
knew  that  I  should  lose  all  that  was  most  pleasant  by 
having  a  stall.     I  love  rowing,  and  I  love  the  river." 

"  Both  loves  shall  be  gratified,"  said  the  duchess.  "  I 
tim  sure  that  the  duke  will  be  most  delighted,  and  some 
one  will  kindly  take  care  of  your  flowers  while  you  ar« 


THE  duke's  secret.  ^7 

"I  must  not  lose  any  money  by  it,"  said  Lady  Talen- 
tine,  simply. 

"Let  me  take  it  for  you,"  said  Captain  Bellairs. 

"  No,  that  would  not  do;  it  must  be  a  lady,"  she  replied, 
disconsolately,  while  the  duke,  the  duchess,  and  Miss 
Glynton  were  busily  looking  over  the  flowers. 

"  Lady  Valentine,"  whispered  Harry,  and  there  was  a 
passionate  pleading  in  his  eyes,  "  let  me  take  you  on  the 
river;  do,  you  have  never  said  one  kind  word  to  me  to- 
day, and  you  know  how  I  worship  you.  Do  let  me  row 
you  up  the  stream  for  half  an  hour," 

"No,  thank  you.  Captain  Bellairs;  you  are  very  kind, 
but  I  must  go  with  the  duke  now.  "WTiat  do  you  say?" 
for  Harry  had  muttered  something  which,  under  hia 
moustache,  had  a  very  queer  sound.  "  What  do  you  say 
of  the  duke  ?" 

"Nothing — nothing,"  he  replied,  hastily.  "He  will 
take  Miss  Glynton  up  the  river;  that  will  make  him 
happy;  let  me  take  you,  then  I  shall  be  happy." 

"How  do  you  know  it  will  make  him  happy?"  shs 
asked. 

"  Look — there  can  not  be  much  mistake." 

If  he  had  known  how  he  should  pain  her  he  would  cer- 
tainly not  have  spoken.  She  did  look,  and  saw  Mis» 
Glynton  talking  to  him  in  an  earnest  fashion  that  cer- 
tainly made  her  wonder.  The  dark  blue  eyes  were  look^ 
ing  straight  into  his.  He  could  not  possibly  know  what 
a  pang  went  through  her  heart  as  she  saw  the  two  beau- 
tiful heads  bent  over  the  blossoms  together;  yet  she  felt 
an  instinctive  dislike  to  him  for  the  pain  he  Lad  caused 
her. 

"I  am  sorry  to  refuse  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  can  not 
go  with  you    to-day." 

She  felt  sorry  when  she  saw  the  handsome  young  fac« 
blanch  with  pain. 

"You  are  cruel,"  he  said;  "all  women  are  cruel.  Tou 
are  the  most  cruel,  because  you  are  the  most  beautiful.  X 
hope  you  will  never  know  what  pain  is." 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  pain  you,"  she  said,  gently. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  did  not  think  of  me  at  all — why  should 
you?  lam  sorrv  I  have  intruded  so  Imig  upon  you.  I 
ought  to  have  seen  I  was  not  wanted." 

She  understood  this  better  than  «he  understood  Ui« 


TEE  duke's  secret. 

duke's  quiet;  it  appealed  more  strongly  to  her  heart  and 
feelings. 

"Now,  captain,  you  know  I  am  sorry  I  have  hurt  you." 

"  You  would  not  vex  me  because  you  are  naturally  kind 
of  heart,  and  would  not  hurt  anything,"  he  said;  "  but  you 
have  shown  me  that  you  are  perfectly  indifferent  to  my 
feelings." 

"  I  knew,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  that  this  would  not  b« 
a  happy  day.  I  shall  never  like  the  words  'fancy  fair' 
again." 

Then  she  looked  up  suddenly,  for  there  was  some  stir 
in  the  group.  The  d;ike  was  going  away  with  Miss  Glyn- 
ton  and  Lady  Charteris,  the  duchess  declined  going  up 
the  river  because  it  was  so  warm  on  the  water.  Lady 
Valentine  looked  to  see  if  there  was  one  shadow  of  regret 
in  the  duke's  eyes  at  leaving  her;  but  no,  he  was  listening 
to  Miss  Glynton,  who  soon  after  interrupted  her  conver- 
sation with  him  to  say,  with  a  ehanuing  smile  to  Lady 
Valentine  that  she  hoped  to  look  over  her  beautiful 
flowers  again;  then  she  went  away  leaning  on  the  duke's 
arm,  and  the  very  sunlight  seemed  to  die  out  for  Lord  Ar- 
den's  daughter;  the  flowers  lost  all  their  fragrance;  the 
sun,  which  had  appeared  so  brilliant  before,  was  weari- 
some in  the  extreme  to  her.   She  was  frightened  at  herself. 

True,  Harry  remained — true  and  staunch,  resisting  all 
the  temptations  held  out  to  him,  devotiug  his  whole  time 
and  attention  to  her;  watching  the  sweet  face  as  it  grew 
paler,  and  hating  himself  because  he  could  not  help  know- 
ing why  it  paled;  wishing  one  moment  the  Duke  of 
Castlemayne  were  ten  thousand  miles  away;  that  ho 
would  marry  Miss  Glyntou ;  and  again,  with  nobler  love 
coming  to  the  rescue,  wishing  that  the  duke  loved  her 
and  would  make  her  happy;  it  was  so  plainly  to  be  seen 
that  she  loved  him.  True,  people  might  think  that  thero 
existed  between  them  the  kindly  liking  one  member  of  a 
household  should  have  for  another;  but  he  knew  more 
than  that.  To  him  the  girl  betrayed  her  love  in  every 
word  and  every  look. 

The  duke  and  Miss  Glynton  walked  down  to  the  rivei 
bank  where  the  "  River  Queen,"  with  its  pretty  little  awn- 
ing of  crimson  and  white  awaited  them. 

"  Are  we  to  go  alone  ?"  asked  Miss  Glynton.  "  Will  nol 
Lady  Charteris  go  with  us  ?"  •, 


THE  DUKE'S  SECEET.  239 

V 

'  ^nt  no  one  seemed  inclined  to  accept  tlie  invitation  ; 
^aid  the  duke  was  not  quite  sure  in  his  mind  whether  he 
wanted  another  person.  During  the  whole  day  he  had 
not  been  alone  with  Miss  Glynton,  and  he  was  anxious  to 
see  whether  this  same  mysterious  influence  would  increase 
or  decrease. 

"  How  lovely  the  river  is,"  said  Miss  Glynton.  "  After 
all  there  is  nothing  like  an  English  river  for  beauty." 

"  Have  you  seen  the  Mississippi  ?"  asked  the  duke. 

"  Yes.  I  have  been  on  the  Mississippi  and  the  Amazon 
both,"  she  replied. 

"Then  the  Thames  must  seem  like  a  little  brook  in 
comparison  ?"  he  said. 

"  Yes ;  but  the  Thames  has  a  beauty  all  its  ovm,"  she 
said.  "  I  admire  the  lovely  river  reaches,  the  green  banks, 
the  gardens  that  come  down  to  the  water's  edge,  the 
reeds  and  the  rushes,  the  water  lilies  and  the  boughs 
that  dip  into  the  river.  Our  great,  rushing,  rapid  rivers 
are  mighty  seas;  this  is  a  summer's  breath  compared  with 
them.     Still,  I  am  quite  sure  that  I  like  this  best." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  replied;  and  then  he  busied 
himself  in  making  her  comfortable,  in  arranging  the 
cushions,  in  placing  the  gay  awning  so  that  it  protected 
her  face  from  the  sun.  She  was  silent  for  some  minutes 
while  he  vigorously  plied  the  oars,  and  they  were  away 
from  the  miniature  bay — in  the  middle  of  the  stream. 

"Keep  as  near  to  the  bank  as  you  can,"  she  said,  "there 
is  nothing  I  like  so  much  as  the  bank  of  the  river.  Do  you 
see  those  lovely,  half-drowned  forget-me-nots  growing 
there?  I  call  that  a  volume  of  poetry.  Do  you  ser  that 
great  tree,  with  its  boughs  just  touching  the  water?  If  1 
were  a  bird,  that  is  the  tree  I  should  choose  to  liva  in." 

He  saw  more  of  her  that  day  than  he  had  ever  before. 
He  began  to  understand  her  character.  He  saw  that  she 
had  an  artist's  eye  and  a  poet's  soul.  No  beauty,  either  of 
sound  or  sight,  escaped  her.  Things  which  others  passed 
over  she  found  a  whole  world  of  delight  in. 

"  How  much  you  love  nature,"  he  said,  after  a  time. 
"You  have  the  true  poet's  love  for  her." 

"I  have  had  all  my  life,"  she  replied,  "and  it  will  dit 
only  when  I  die." 

As  he  looked  at  her  he  thought  it  was  sad  that  one  so 
beftutiful  must  ever  die.    And  she  bending  her  head  ot^ 


210  THE  duke's   secret. 

the  side  of  the  boat,  watched  the  feathered  spray  from  the 
oars  and  the  clear  sweet  waters  as  they  seemed  to  float 
over  it. 

"  It  is  like  dream-land,"  she  said,  after  a  time. 

"  A  land,"  said  the  duke,  "  that  I  should  like  to  live  in 
forever." 

CHAPTER  XTJT., 

THB    COWABD's    confession. 

«I  THiHK,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  "  that  we  have  been  far 
enough." 

*'  Are  you  tired  ?"  asked  the  duke. 

"  No,"  she  repUed  ;  "  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  do  not 
think  I  should  ever  tire.  I  enjoy  this  much  better  than 
the  fancy  fair." 

"  Do  you  really  ?  then  it  must  be  as  I  tell  you  ;  you 
have  a  poet's  soul,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Beautiful  as  it  is,  we  must  return,"  she  said  ;  "  why, 
we  are  in  the  very  silence  of  the  river ;  there  are  no 
houses,  no  sounds  ;  let  us  go  near  the  bank,  under  that 
tree  if  you  can  get  the  boat  there,  and  enjoy  the  silence 
for  a  few  minutes,  then  we  will  return  back." 

He  did  as  she  directed  him,  rowed  near  the  bank  and 
rested  under  the  great  shady  boughs  of  the  tree.  He 
laid  the  oars  across  the  boat,  and  when  the  last  drop  of 
water  had  fallen  from  them  into  the  brimming  river,  there 
was  no  sound  to  be  heard. 

He  looked  in  silence  at  her  rapt  face.  She  had  forgot- 
ten everything  except  that  beautiful  world  of  nature  lying 
around  her ;  the  dark-blue  eyes  hngered  on  the  clear, 
sweet  river,  and  its  fringed  banks,  on  the  lilies  that  slept 
on  its  bosom,  on  the  fringe  of  green  grass,  on  the  tall, 
straight  reeds,  on  the  lovely  light  and  shadows  that  came 
and  went,  on  the  rippling  foliage  and  the  distant  hills. 
All  that  was  artificial,  mean  or  common  in  this  world  had 
fallen  from  them.  In  the  old  galleries  of  Rome  or  Venice 
he  had  seen  in  the  far-famed  pictured  faces  just  the  same 
bright,  rapt,  heavenly  CT.pression. 

She  was  sitting  with  her  hands  folded,  her  dress  of 
creamy  silk  and  rich  black  lace  making  her  look  like  a 
picture  just  stepped  from  its  frame,  her  face  half  turned 
from  him,  so  that  the  clear-cut,  beautiful  profile  was  seen 
to  admiration.  The  sunlight  came  filtered  through  the 
leaves   overhead ;    a   hisd    was  singing    in  the  greeD 


THE  duke's  SECEIT.  241 

branches  ;  there  was  the  smallest  ripple  in  the  water  at 
it  ran  past  the  boat ;  a  faint  whisper  of  the  wind  as  it 
sung  among  the  branches,  and  the  duke  sat  watching  the 
beautiful  rapt  face. 

As  he  looked  at  the  clear-cut,  lovely  profile  a  new  sense 
of  familiarity  with  it  came  over  him.  He  seemed  to  know 
it  better  than  he  knew  the  full  face.  With  its  clear,  direct 
glance  it  was  more  familiar  to  him,  and  the  same  weird 
feeling  came  over  him.  He  had  certainly  seen  lips  with 
those  lovely  curves  before ;  he  had  seen  the  same 
exquisite  molding  of  the  eyebrows,  the  same  long  lashes, 
the  clear  straight  brows. 

All  at  once  it  flashed  across  him.  The  birds  sung  in 
the  trees,  the  water  washed  against  the  boat  with  a  clear, 
silvery  sound,  and  it  came  to  him  with  the  unerring 
swiftness  of  a  revelation.     She  was  like  Naomi. 

Stranger,  American  though  she  was,  born  in  a  distant 
land,  brought  up  in  an  atmosphere  Naomi  had  never 
even  breathed,  still  she  was  like  her.  He  wondered  he 
had  not  seen  it  before.  It  was  that  likeness  to  Naomi 
which  had  made  him  feel  so  strange  when  with  her,  and 
he  remembered  that  even  his  mother  had  found  some- 
thing familiar  in  her  face.  It  struck  him  dumb.  Then, 
in  speaking,  she  turned  her  full  face,  with  its  clear,  direct 
glance  on  him  and  the  likeness  diminished.  She  saw 
that  lie  looked  hke  one  who  had  received  a  shock  ;  but 
she  asked  him  no  questions.  After  a  few  minutes  he  said 
to  her  : 

"  I  have  found  out  a  mystery." 

The  beautiful  face  changed  suddenly  ;  wonder,  fear 
and  pain  came  over  it,  her  Hps  quivered,  and  she  waited 
for  a  few  minutes  before  she  answered  him. 

"  A  mystery,"  she  said.  "  I  thought  most  of  the  mys- 
teries of  this  world  had  been  solved  long  ago." 

"  Whenever  I  have  been  with  you  I  have  had  a  strange 
sense  of  having  met  and  known  you  before  ;  now  I  have 
found  out  what  it  is." 

"  Have  you  ?"  she  replied,  slowly  ;  and  he  saw  her  lips 
grow  white.     "  Have  you  really  ?"  she  added. 

"  Yes,  you  are  very  much  like  some  one  I  knew  and 
loved  many  years  ago  ;  she  was  a  young  girl,  almost  a 
child  ;  but  there  are  some  lines  in  your  face  exactly  like 
iwrs." 


242  THE  duke's  secret. 

She  was  silent  again  for  some  minutes,  with  her  face 
turned  away  from  him  and  her  hands  clinched. 

"  The  old  adage  that  no  two  faces  are  quite  alike  is  an 
exploded  idea,"  she  said. 

"  It  is  not  quite  true,"  he  replied.  "  I  have  seen  like- 
nesses myself  so  strong  that  I  have  been  quite  puzzled 
over  them.  Now,  although  you  have  never  been  in  this 
same  quarter  of  the  globe  before,  this  lady  whom  I  knew 
years  ago  and  you  are  wonderfully  alike. 

"  I  have  read  that  no  two  faces,  no  two  blades  of  grass, 
no  two  green  leaves  are  alike,  take  the  world  through,  nor 
two  pairs  of  hands.  The  nicety  of  creation  must  be  won- 
derful, if  that  be  the  case." 

"  It  is  wonderful,"  he  said,  reverently.  'I  think  your 
likeness  to — to — this  lady  of  whom  I  speak  is  the  most 
wonderful  I  have  ever  seen." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  you  did  not  know  her 
rery  well." 

"  Oh,  yes  I  did ;  she  lived — "  he  paused  abruptly. 
"  Yes,  I  know  her  well." 

"  Is  she  living  here  in  London  now  ?  "  asked  Miss  Glyn- 
ton.     "  I  should  like  to  see  my  likeness." 

"  Ah,  no  ;  I  wish  she  were.  I  do  not  know  where  she 
is;  whether  she  be  living  or  dead.  It  is  more  than  twelve 
years  since  I  have  seen  her." 

"  Then  you  have  forgotten  her,"  she  said,  quietly. 
"  How  can  you  tell  whether  I  am  like  her  or  not  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  her.  I  remember  her  face  as  it 
was  then.  She  was  very  young.  By  this  time  she  will 
have  grown  into  beautiful  womanhood,  if  she  be  hviug. 
I  do  not  feel  sure  that  I  should  recognize  her  if  I  met 
her.  You  are  wonderfully  like  her.  It  is  only  in  the 
profile  though  I  see  such  a  great  resemblance,  it  is  not  in 
the  full  face  ;  and  though  it  may  seem  a  strange  thing  to 
say,  I  do  not  remember  seeing  the  profile  of  your  face 
before." 

"  I  hope,"  she  said,  quietly,  "  that  all  the  memories  that 
my  likeness  to  one  you  knew  years  ago  brings  to  you  are 
pleasant  ones." 

''  God  knows,"  he  said,  quietly. 

"  Does  that  mean  yes  or  no  ?  Are  they  pleasant  or  lUJ- 
pleasant,  sad  or  sweet?" 


THZ  DUKZ'S   SSGBST.  2€b 

"  They  are  both — alL  I  never  have  the  courage  to  face 
them.     I  run  away  from  them." 

"  I  should  not  have  thought  you  -wanting  in  courage," 
sbiB  said. 

"  There  are  so  many  kinds  of  courage,"  he  said,  sadly. 
"  I  am  frightened  at  nothing  human.  I  am  as  brave,  I 
hope,  as  any  other  man;  but  once  in  my  life,  when  tbe 
courage  of  a  moment  would  have  saved  me,  I  proved  my^ 
self  a  coward.  But  why  do  I  talk  to  you  in  tins  fashion  ? 
1  forget  that  we  are  strangers — two  people  who  have  met 
only  in  society ;  and  I  ought,  by  all  the  laws  of  good- 
breeding  and  etiquette,  to  be  entertaining  you,  instead 
©f  which  I  am  tiring  you." 

She  turned  her  dark-blue,  clear  eyes  full  upon  his  face. 

"  You  interest  me  very  much  indeed;  pray  do  not  think 
me  heartless.  Flattery  and  compUments  are  very  well  in 
a  ball  room,  they  go  well  with  gas-light  and  artificial 
flowers;  but  out  here  in  the  fresh,  sweet  air — out  on  the 
river,  who  could  be  anything  but  natural,  simple,  kind 
of  heart.     You  interest  me ;  you  could  not  bore  me." 

"  That  is  kindly  said,"  replied  the  duke;  "  it  is  the  very 
likeness  to  the  lady  of  whom  I  speak  which  draws  the 
truth  of  my  heart  from  me.  I  can  not  otherwise  tell  why 
I  have  spoken  as  I  have  done." 

"  We  all  make  great  mistakes  in  our  life,"  she  said, 
slowly;  "sometimes  through  pride,  through  want  of  jus- 
tice, or  bravery;  and  you,  you  say,  made  one  great  mis- 
take." 

"One  great  mistake,"  he  replied;  "one  that  has 
shadowed  my  life,  and  that  nothing  can  ever  undo.  It  was 
the  cowardice  of  a  few  minutes.  I  thought  I  could  put 
everything  right  afterward,  but  I  was  mistaken.  It  has 
cost  me — ah,  Heaven ! — the  happiness  of  my  life.'* 

"  You  must  not  say  that,"  she  cried.  "  How  can  you 
tell?" 

"I  know;  but.  Miss  Glynton,  forget  all  I  have  been  say- 
ing. What  has  induced  me  to  talk  in  this  strain  ?  The 
sxinshine  and  the  river,  I  am  afraid.  Will  you  forget  what 
I  have  said?" 

"  Is  it  really  your  wish  that  I  should  do  so  ?'*  she  asked. 

"  Yes,  really,  Miss  Glynton." 

**  You  never  can  tell  me,  then,"  she  said,  **  what  tkt 
cirGumstauces  were  ?  " 


244  THE  duke's  secret. 

For  one  instant  the  whole  scene  came  before  him  ;  he 
saw  his  proud,  haughty  mother  looking  contemptuously 
at  the  beautiful  kneeling  figure  ;  he  saw  the  face  that 
seemed  so  full  of  desolation  when  she  cried  out,  "  I  ap- 
peal to  you,  Lord  St.  Albans."  It  was  but  the  fantasy  of 
a  moment,  then  it  was  gone.     He  shuddered. 

"  No,  I  could  not  teU  all  the  circumstances — they  would 
not  interest  you,"  he  cried. 

She  looked  at  him  with  grave  interest  as  she  an- 
swered : 

"  I  have  felt  sure  always  that  you  were  not  a  happy 
man.    To  my  thinking,  you  have  not  a  happy  face." 

"  I  do  not  deserve  happiness,"  said  the  duke,  gravely, 
"  and  I  shall  never  have  it.  But,  Miss  GJynton,  you  wUl 
promise  me  never  to  mention  a  word  of  what  I  have  said 
to  you  ?  The  strange  likeness  took  me  imawares.  And 
now  we  will  return." 

He  took  up  the  oars  again,  but  they  were  scarcely 
needed  ;  the  boat  seemed  to  float  down  the  stream.  They 
had  been  longer  than  they  knew,  and  Miss  Glynton  said 
half  quietly: 

"  We  had  better  go  back  at  once  to  Lady  Valentine's 
stall.  I  promised  to  buy  some  flowers,  and  I  must  keep 
my  promise." 

So  when  the  "Eiver  Queen"  lay  once  more  on  the 
bank,  they  walked  slowly  back  to  the  scene  of  the  fancy 
fair. 

"We  shall  never  be  like  strangers  again,"  said  the 
duke  as  they  draw  near  to  the  white  tents  and  the  music. 

"No,"  replied  Miss  Glynton;  "I  shall  never  forget  this 
afternoon  on  the  river.  Who  should  have  thought, 
from  seeing  you,  so  calm,  quiet,  and  like  other  people, 
who  would  have  imagined  that  you  had  a  tragedy  in  your 
life." 

"I  believe  every  one  has  more  or  less,"  said  the  duke; 
"there  is  more  suffering  in  hfe  than  pleasure." 

"  Yet  we  try  hard  after  the  pleasure,"  said  Miss  Glyn- 
ton, with  a  smile  as  the  "  Sweetheart "  waltz  fell  upon  her 
ear. 

They  went  back  to  Lady  Valentine's  stall;  but  over 
the  duke's  handsome  face  lay  a  cloud  of  sadness,  and  the 
beautiful  lips  of  his  companion  quivered  with  something 
more  like  pain  than  fatigue. 


THi  duke's  secret.  245 

\  CHAPTEE  XLin. 

.'"  A  STARTLING   QUESTION. 

A  SWEET  face,  that  by  this  time  had  grown  very  pale 
and  tired,  was  evidently  looking  out  for  them  ;  two  wist- 
ful eyes,  too  kind  for  reproach,  greeted  them.  Captain 
Bellairs,  true  to  his  trust,  was  still  there  ;  but  Miss  Glyn- 
ton  uttered  a  little  cry  of  surprise  as  she  saw  that  almost 
all  the  flowers  were  gone. 

"Yes,"  said  Harry,  "  Lady  Valentine  has  had  a  splendid 
success.  I  should  say  she  has  sold  far  more  than  anybody 
else.  She  looks  tired.  A  few  minutes  on  the  river  now 
would  do  her  good." 

No  light  of  response  came  into  the  duke's  eyes;  he  was 
watching  the  face  whose  wonderful  significance  he  had 
but  so  recently  discovered.  He  could  not  have  gone  back 
to  the  river,  much  as  he  loved  her  and  desired  to  please 
her  ;  he  could  not  have  returned — henceforth  the  river 
would  be  a  haunted  spot  for  him. 

"  I  think,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  if  you  feel  as  tired 
as  you  look,  Valentine,  it  will  be  best,  dear,  to  order  the 
carriage  and  drive  home.     Shall  I  find  the  duchess  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  seen  her.  She  has  been  very  kind  to 
me.  Thank  you,  I  am  tired,  but  quite  able  to  finish  my 
day.*' 

He  noticed  that  although  she  spoke  she  did  not  look  at 
him ;  the  eyes  that  always  shone  with  such  a  kindly  light 
for  her,  were  averted  from  him,  and  his  heart  ached  for 
her;  he  knew  that  she  was  jealous  of  Miss  Glynton,  the 
woman  who  bore — he  could  see  it  now — so  strange  a  like- 
ness to  his  Idfct  wife. 

"Valentine,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "you  are  cross  with 
me;  do  not  deny  it,  my  dear.  You  are  tired,  I  know;  but 
that  is  not  all,  you  are  vexed  with  me.  You  are  always 
truthful;  tell  me  what  it  is." 

"  I  do  not  think  you  have  been  kind  to  me  to-day,"  she 
said.  "  I  had  looked  forward  to  to-day,  and  it  has  been 
very  dreary  for  me." 

"  But  why,  Valentine  ?"  he  asked  eagerly.  "  You  have 
had  great  success;  you  have  been  really  the  queen  of  the 
fete.  You  have  even  eclipsed  those  queens  of  beauty  Meg- 
dames  Dulwich  and  Trelawnejl" 


246  THE  duke's  secret. 

The  violet  eyes  were  raised  to  his  now,  looking  into 
them  with  quiet  reproach  deeper  than  all  words. 
I     "Do  you  think  all  that,  even  if  every  word  were  strictly 
true,  gives  me  any  pleasure  ?"  she  asked. 

"It  should  do  so,"  he  answered. 

"What,  when  you  were  away,"  she  said;  "  away  on  the 
river  with — weU,  with  the  lady  whom  I  know  you  think 
beautiful  i*    How  co\ild  I  be  happy  ?" 

"  But,  my  dear  Valentine,"  he  began. 

She  interrupted  him. 

"  No,  I  am  not  your  dear  Valentine,  San  Sebastian.  If 
I  had  been  you  would  not  have  left  me  so  long." 

"  What  a  child  it  is,"  thought  the  duke.  "  How  shall  I 
quiet  her  ?" 

"  Even  when  you  come  back,"  she  continued,  "  you  did 
not  ask  me  if  I  should  like  a  row,  if  only  for  ten  minutes." 

"  I  ask  you  now."  Then  the  sweet,  wistful  eyes  seemed 
to  brighten  just  a  little,  as  she  continued:  "Now  that  I 
have  looked  more  closely  at  you,  you  do  not  seem  to  have 
enjoyed  yourself  very  much;  you  have  a  shade  of  melan- 
choly over  you.  Perhaps  you  would  have  been  quite  as 
happy  with  me." 

The  sweet  face  was  looking  at  him  with  such  wistful 
pathos,  such  keen  expectation,  he  could  not  help  saying 
what  was  probably  true,  for  the  hour  on  the  river  had  its 
bitter  pain. 

"lam  sure  I  should,  Valentine;  lam  always  happy 
with  you.     Why  do  you  reproach  me  ?" 

Then  he  suddenly  became  aware  that  Miss  Glynton 
was  watching  him  and  Lady  Valentine  with  an  intent 
look  in  her  violet  eyes.  Lady  Valentine  saw  the  same 
thinj:!^,  and  suddenly  awoke  to  the  conviction  that  a  lover's 
quaiTel  at  a  fancy  fair  was  out  of  place. 

"  I  should  like,  said  Miss  Glynton,  in  her  musical  voice, 
**  to  purchase  some  flowers,  Lady  Valentine.  I  see  that 
you  have  disposed  of  a  great  number.  Can  you  find  one 
that  would  be  a  memento  of  a  pleasant  day  ?  " 

But  Lady  Valentine  did  not  stir  one  step  from  the 
duke's  side,  evidently  she  was  in  no  hurry  to  find  flowers 
for  her  brilliant  rival. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  she  said,  "  that  I  bav^  noOQ  left  th&| 
Would  please  you,  Miss  Glynton." 


THE  DUKE'B  SECRET.  247 

•Weil,"  laughed  the  beautifxil  woman,  "I  will  be 
pleased  with  anything  you  have.  I  must  carry  one  away 
with  me." 

A  curious  look  of  determination  came  over  the  fair 
young  face — a  look  of  resolve  that  came  into  the  violet 
eyes  and  touched  the  sweet  lips.  She  said  to  herself, 
"No,"  that  the  American  beauty  had  taken  the  duke  from 
iier  ;  but  she  should  not  carry  off  a  flower  as  well. 

The  two  were  once  more  standing  face  to  face. 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  turning  carelessly  away, 
*'  I  am  sure  that  I  have  nothing  left  that  would  please 
you." 

And  the  determination  not  to  part  with  even  one  leaf 
for  her  rival  was  so  plainly  written  on  Lady  Valentine's 
face  that  the  duke  felt  himself  compelled  to  go  to  the 
rescue.  He  knew  that  Lady  Valentine  was  jealous,  even 
though  Miss  Glynton  did  not  understand  it. 

"I  see  some  very  fine  strelitza  regionoe,"  he  said.  "Is 
that  a  favorite  flower  of  yours,  Miss  Glynton  ?" 

"Yes;  I  am  especially  fond  of  it,"  said  the  heiress  with 
a  smile. 

The  situation  amused  her,  although  she  did  not  quite 
understand  it. 

"That  is  all  promised,  duke,"  said  Lady  Valentine, 
hastily. 

No,  she  had  taken  the  duke  away,  and  had  detained 
him  the  whole  of  that  bright  sunny  afternoon;  she  could 
not  have  a  leaf,  not  even  a  thorn. 

The  duke  thought  matters  were  growing  serious;  he 
must  change  the  aspect  of  things  in  some  manner.  Cap- 
tain Bellairs  watched  the  whole  proceedings  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"I  should  bet  on  Lady  Valentine,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self.    "  She  will  never  let  the  other  one  have  a  leaf." 

The  war  went  on;  Miss  Glynton  thinking  she  must  be 
mistaken  that  Lady  Valentine  was  sincere  in  thinking  no 
flower  in  her  stall  fit  for  the  price  she  would  give  for  it; 
Lady  Valentine  equally  resolved  that  she  should  not  have 
even  one  bud.  The  duke  was  obliged  to  interfere — any- 
thing to  change  the  current  of  ideas  in  Lady  Valentine's 
mind. 

*•  I  have  not  purchased  a  bouquet  yet,"  he  said.  "  Atq 
you  quite  sure  you  have  nothing  for  me  ?"  ^ 


t4B  tBX  duke's  SEGBIT. 

Her  whole  face  changed — ^brightened,  grew  tender 
and  sweet. 

"For  you  I"  she  said.  "Yes,  I  have  something  that 
•mil  please  you  ;  I  have  a  most  beautiful  eucharist  Uly, 
but  it  cost  an  enormous  price." 

"  Never  mind  the  price,"  he  said.  "  Charity,  we  know, 
at  these  times  is  extoi-tionate.  Let  me  have  the  eucharist 
lily.  Lady  Valentine." 

She  took  the  lovely  white  flower  from  a  vase  where  it 
iiad  been  carefully  preserved,  and  held  it  up  to  him. 

"  Is  it  not  beautiful  ?"  she  asked,  with  a  smile  as  fair 
«nd  open  as  the  flower  itself. 

Miss  Glynton  looked  at  it  with  admiration. 

"  "Why  would  you  not  let  me  have  that.  Lady  Valen- 
tine ?  the  eucharist  Hly  is  the  flower  I  love  best  of  all." 

The  duke  rushed  to  the  rescue  ;  he  saw  that  in  another 
moment  Lady  Valentine  would  have  uttered  some  rash 
words.    There  was  but  one  thing  to  be  done. 

"Do  me  the  honor  of  accepting  this,  Miss  Glynton," 
he  said,  offering  the  beautiful  white  lily  to  her. 

She  took  it  with  a  grateful  smile  and  a  beautiful  blush  ; 
but  if  he  had  caressed  with  one  hand  he  had  stabbed  with 
the  other.  Lady  Valentine  turned  with  a  face  white  and 
set,  like  a  stone  mask.  So  that  is  what  he  wanted  this 
flower  for  I 

Just  as  suddenly  when  she  saw  the  change  on  the  fair 
young  face,  it  flashed  across  Miss  Glynton's  mind  that 
Lady  Valentine  was  jealous  of  her  ;  nothing  else  would 
explain  that  strange  conduct.  Jealous  of  her  and  the 
Duke  of  Castlemayne  ;  it  must  be  so. 

"  Captain  Bellairs,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  I  wish  you 
would  take  me  to  Mrs.  Dulwich's  stall,  I  should  like  some 
tea." 

She  bowed  coldly  to  the  duke,  still  more  coldly  to  Miss 
Glynton,  then  turned  away  with  Captain  Bellairs. 

"  That  was  not  fair,"  she  said,  indignantly  ;  "  the  duke 
ought  pot  to  have  given  that  flower  away." 

"I  do  not  see  how  he  could  help  it,"  said  Captain  Bel- 
lairs, honestly.  "I  must  say,  even  at  the  risk  of  displeas- 
ing you,  that  in  his  place  I  am  afraid  I  should  have  done 
the  same  thing.  It  was  growing  quite  alarming.  Why 
would  you  not  let  Miss  Glynton  have  a  flow«r  ?  " 


THE  duke's  secbet.  249 

**I  do  not  like  Miss  Glynton,"  she  replied,  nor  could 
anything  induce  her  to  say  more. 

The  beautiful,  brilliant  day  was  drawing  to  a  close  at 
last ;  many  of  the  visitors  had  gone  ;  there  was  a  con- 
tinual roll  of  carriages  fiom  the  grounds  to  the  high- 
road; the  sun  was  setting  over  the  river.  The  ladies  had, 
by  the  duke's  earnest  invitation,  gone  to  the  villa  to  refresh 
themselves;  the  duchess  accepted  the  invitation  for  Lady 
Valentine's  sake  ;  Mr.  and  Miss  Glynton  were  going  to 
drive  Lady  Belle  Chalmers  home  to  dine  with  them. 
They  met  in  a  group.  While  the  duchess  spoke  to  Lady 
Belle  and  Mr.  Glynton,  the  beautiful  heiress  saw  and 
noticed  nothing  but  the  angry  avoidance  in  Lady  Valen- 
tine's eyes;  she  never  looked  toward  her  or  gave  the  least 
sign  that  she  recognized  her,  and  Miss  Glynton  was 
almost  sorry  she  still  carried  the  eucharist  lily  in  her 
hand. 

"  She  must  love  him,"  she  said  to  herself.  **  Unless  she 
loved  him  she  would  not  be  jealous  of  me." 

No  one  noticed  Lady  Valentine's  coldness — all  were 
busied  and  engrossed  in  their  own  affairs.  The  duke  was 
to  drive  back  with  the  two  ladies;  but  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  might  as  well  see  Miss  Glynton  to  the  carriage. 
Mr.  Glynton  had  already  offered  his  arm  to  Lady  Belle. 

As  they  walked  through  the  grounds  to  the  drive, 
where  the  carriage  stood  waiting,  she  looked  up  into  his 
face  with  that  direct,  steady  glance  of  hers,  and  said: 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  find  courage  to  say  what  is  on  my 
mind,  duke?" 

"  I  hope  you  will,  if  it  be  anything  you  have  to  say  to 
me,"  he  replied. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  question,  and  you  must  think  be- 
fore you  give  me  your  answer,"  she  said.  "You  have 
spoken  to  me  of  pain;  now  which  do  you  think  is  the 
most  cruel  deed,  to  take  the  life  from  a  human  body  by 
poison  or  sword,  or  to  break  a  human  heart  ?" 

"  Do  you  believe  that  human  hearts  ever  break  ?"  h* 
asked. 

"  Do  I  ?    Yes,  most  assuredly,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  I  should  say  the  most  cruel  thing  is  to  break  a 
human  heart." 

"  Take  the  words  home,"  sne  said,  earnestly.  "  No, 
there  is  no  time  for  questions;  here  is  the  carriage  and 


250  THE  duke's  secret. 

Lady  Belle  is  waiting.    Only — remember  always  what  yon 
have  just  said." 

CHAPTEE  XLIV. 

A   FAIUT    DBESS. 

It  was  in  the  deep  twilight  of  the  same  evening  tha- 
the  duke  went  to  the  piauo.  He  enjoyed  singing  tohimt 
self.  The  duchess  had  fallen  asleep  over  a  book  she  was 
supposed  to  be  reading;  she  would  not  for  the  world  have 
allowed  any  one  to  guess  that  she  was  sleej^ing.  Lady  Valen- 
tine had  taken  up  a  book  of  poems,  and  was  seeking  the 
last  rey  of  daylight  at  the  open  window.  The  air  he 
played  was  sweet,  fanciful,  yet  with  a  tinge  of  sadness  in 
it    It  roused  her,  and  she  began  to  listen  to  the  words: 

"  By  studying  my  lady's  eyes 

I've  grown  so  learned  day  by  day, 
'  So  Macchiavelian  in  this  wise, 

That  when  I  send  her  flowers  I  say 

**  To  each  small  flower,  no  matter  what— 
Geranium,  pink  or  tube-rose, 
Syringas,  or  forget-me-not. 
,         Or  violet — before  it  goes; 

**  *  Be  not  triumphant,  little  flower. 

When  on  her  haughty  heart  yon  lie, 
But  modestly  enjoy  the  hour; 
She'll  weary  of  you  by  and  by,' " 

She  stole  up  to  him,  noiselessly,  and  clasped  her  white 
hands  across  his  eyes.     He  caught  them  and  kissed  tUem. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  "  if  even  you  call  me  a  witch,  I  will 
tell  you  who  you  were  thinking  of  when  you  sung  those 
words." 

"  You  could  not,  my  dear,  if  you  tried,"  he  said. 

"  I  can.  You  were  thinking  about  the  eucharist  lily  you 
gave  Miss  Glynton,  and  wondering  if  she  threw  it  away  on 
the  dusty  high-road,  or  if  she  carried  it  safely  home,  and 
placed  it,  like  the  heroines  in  novels,  in  a  beautiful  vase, 
or  whether  it  lies  forgotten  on  her  toilet-table.  Now,  be 
quite  frank,  am  I  not  right  ?" 

He  looked  at  her  with  wondering  admiration. 

"  You  are  quite  right,"  he  said.  "  It  was  thinking  thos© 
thoughts  that  made  me  sing  that  song." 

"  Never  try  to  hide  your  thoughts  from  me  another 
time."  said  Lady  Valentine,  laughingly.    "You  wUl  not 


THE  duke's  SECBET.  .i51 

succeed.  I  am  not  content,  though,  for  I  am  quite  sure 
you  will  give  Miss  GljTiton  more  flowers  to  weary  of  by 
vid  by." 

It  was  well  for  Lady  Valentine's  peace  of  mind  that  she 
did  not  see  how  her  eucharist  lUy  was  treasured,  how  care- 
fully it  was  cai'ried  home,  how  the  beautiful,  queenly 
woman  took  it  with  her  own  hands  to  her  own  room,  how 
she  poured  some  clear  bright  water  into  a  costly  Venetian 
glass  and  put  the  white  flower  into  it. 

"Drink,"  she  said,  as  though  it  had  been  Hving  and 
could  understand,  "  drink,  sweet  lily,  after  the  hot  dust 
and  the  sun." 

How  lovingly  she  caressed  the  white  leayes,  with  their 
beautiful  touches  of  green. 

"From  him  tome,"  said  the  fair,  queenly  woman,  as 
she  stood  over  it,  calmly  surveying  it.  "From  him  to  me. 
"Why,  if  each  leaf  could  shed  a  heai-t's  blood,  I  ought  to 
rend  it  to  pieces;  but  I  will  keep  it."  Then  she  rang  for 
her  maid;  there  was  no  trace  of  that  ripple  of  passionate 
scorn  on  her  face,  no  sign  of  the  tempest  of  emotion  in 
her  violet  eyes.  "  Bring  me  my  tablets,"  she  said.  "  I 
want  to  see  what  engagement  I  have  for  to-morrow  even- 
ing." 

The  maid  returned  with  the  ivory  tablets,  and  Miss 
Glynton  looked  at  them. 

"  Lady  Layard's  ball.  Lady  Layard !  That  is  the  Duch- 
ess of  Castlemayne's  protegee.  Lady  Nell.  The  Castle- 
maynes  will  be  there,  and  Lady  Valentine  too.  I  must 
teach  that  young  child  a  little  humility.  Yet  how  pretty 
she  looked  when  she  defied  me.  She  would  not  let  mo 
have  a  flower.  It  was  useless  asking.  I  suppose,  poor 
child,  she  loves  him."  Then  aloud  to  her  waiting-maid, 
•he  said  :  "  Lucy,  I  want  a  very  particular  toilet  for  to- 
morrow evening ;  do  you  think  I  could  get  it  ?" 

"  I  should  think,  madame,  that  money  can  procure  any- 
thing. If  it  be  possible,  I  should  say  the  possibility  would 
be  with  you." 

"  You  had  better  see  Madame  Elise  at  once.  I  want  a 
ball-dress  that  must  be  almost  a  fairy  dress,  of  white  and 
pale  green,  exactly  the  green  that  you  see  on  this  flower; 
and  I  want — listen  attentively,  Lucy — I  want  the  dress 
made  so  as  to  suggest  the  flower  ;  touched,  you  see,  with 
green,  not  overladen.     Then  I  want  as  many  of  thest 


261  THE  DUKE'S  SBCRET. 

lilies  as  you  can  get ;  you  must  go  to  the  first  florist  in 
London — they  must  be  found.  I  want  sufficient  for  the 
bodice  of  my  dress  and  for  a  bouquet." 

" What  taste  madame  has!"  sighed  the  girl,  wonder- 
ing how  such  an  elaborate  costume  could  be  got  ready. 

"You  have  the  idea  of  the  dress,  Lucy,"  said  the 
beautiful  heiress  ;  "  white,  touched  with  green,  to  sug- 
gest, so  far  as  a  dress  can  suggest,  a  flower.  It  must  be 
trimmed  with  long,  trailing  green  grasses  and  the  same 
lilies.  You  quite  understand,  Lucy?  You  can  give 
Madame  Elise  a  clear  idea,  can  you  ?  Remember,  it  is 
not  so  much  a  matter  of  taste,  it  has  a  meaning,  and  no 
instructions  of  mine  must  be  changed." 

Miss  Glynton  would  not  go  out  again  this  evening, 
although  three  balls  were  on  the  list.  She  did  not  even  go 
down  to  dinner,  but  sent  an  apology,  saying  that  she  was 
much  fatigued  with  the  long  day  at  the  fancy  fair.  Har- 
dress  B.  Glynton  dined  alone,  then  went  to  spend  the 
evening  with  Lady  Belle  Chalmers. 

While  the  duke  was  singing  his  little  song,  and  won- 
dering what  she  had  done  with  his  present,  Miss  Glyn- 
ton sat  with  the  Venetian  glass  before  her  steadfastly 
watching  the  flower,  her  mind  full  of  a  thousand  thoughts, 
her  heart  filled  with  a  thousand  memories.  From  the 
very  expression  of  her  face  it  was  to  be  seen  that  there 
was  a  great  struggle  going  on  in  her  mind — that  tender 
and  loving  thoughts,  fierce  and  cruel  thoughts,  divided 
her  mind. 

It  was  not  a  pleasant  evening  that  the  beautiful  heiress 
spent  even  in  that  magnificent  chamber,  where  the  treas- 
ures of  the  earth  seemed  gathered  ;  she  did  not  even 
think  out  her  thoughts,  for  she  was  still  perplexed. 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  the  right  idea,  the 
right  thing  to  do  will  come  to  me  in  my  dream  ;  but  let 
what  may  be,  Lady  Valentine  Arden  must  learn  her 
lesson." 

They  were  a  long  way  apart  ;  but  it  was  very  evident 
that  the  same  idea  was  in  tue  mind  of  both  ladies — each 
had  resolved  upon  giving  the  other  a  lesson. 

It  did  not  promise  well  for  the  harmony  of  their  next 
meeting.  A  strange  coincidence  happened  about  the 
flowers. 

Lady   Val^^^'^Q,    repenting   of    her   ill-humor  and 


THE  duke's  beoret.  253 

jealousy,  also  to  sliow  the  duke  tliat  she  had  quite  for- 
given bim,  sent  to  the  florist's  for  a  eucharist  lily  for  him 
to  wear  at  Lady  Layard's  ball.  She  reserved  for  herself 
always  the  pleasant  task  of  finding  flowers  for  him;  and 
he  was  always  j^leasedwith  what  she  had;  he  smiled  when 
he  saw  the  eucharist  lily. 

He  understood  at  once  that  it  was  the  amende  honorable 
that  she  wished  to  make;  he  kissed  the  white  leaves  be- 
fore she  fastened  it  for  him. 

"I  shall  never  be  so  foolish,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "as 
to  be  jealous  over  a  flower  again." 

"  You  never  need,"  replied  the  duke,  and  they  drove  oil 
to  Lady  Layard's,  while  hundreds  of  pale,  golden  stars 
burned  in  the  blue  skies. 

Lady  Valentine  had  hardly  given  a  thought  as  to 
whether  Miss  Glynton  would  be  there  or  not.  She  was 
too  happy  in  being  friends  again  with  the  duke — indeed, 
better  friends  than  ever,  for  he  had  never  said  so  much 
to  her  as  on  the  night  on  which  they  made  up  their 
little  quarrel.  Yet  it  was  a  little  relief  when  they 
reached  the  magnificent  ball-room  to  see  no  trace  of  her. 

And  Lady  Videntine  was  for  some  time  queen  of  the 
fete ;  all  the  most  eligible  men  in  the  room  surrounded 
her,  every  dance  prayed  for  as  though  a  life  depended  on 
it.  There  were  pretty  girls  and  beautiful  women  in  abund- 
ance, but  wherever  Miss  Glynton  was  not,  there  Lady 
Valentine  was  always  queen.  Something  of  relief  came 
over  her.  She  had  proimsed  to  be  amiable,  and  she  had 
no  intention  whatever  of  being  jealous;  still,  as  she  owned 
to  herself,  it  was  much  better  not  to  be  tempted — there 
was  not  such  danger  of  falling.  She  was  talking  happily 
enough  to  one  of  her  partners  when  a  few  words,  casually 
spoken  by  a  lady  passing  by,  arrested  her  attention. 

"  A  very  happy  coincidence,  she  said —  "  very  happy; 
the  most  novel  announcement  of  an  engagement  that  I 
remember  to  have  heard." 

"  Do  you  think  it  an  engagement  ?"  asked  another 
voioe. 

But  Lady  Valentine  did  not  hear  the  reply — the  speakers 
had  passed  on;  but  she  remembered  the  words.  She 
fancied  once  or  twice  that  the  sound  she  heard  was  the 
murmur  of  admiration.  Suddenly  the  gentleman  to  wheia 
fibe  was  talking,  cried: 


264  THE  duke's  shcret. 

J 

"  What  a  beautiful  woman!  Who  is  she?  What  an 
exquisite  dress !" 

Lady  Valentine  followed  his  glance,  and  almost  started 
■with  horror  when  her  eyes  fell  upon  that  queenly  woman 
in  her  magnificent  dress,  diamonds  shining  on  her  white 
breast  and  white,  rounded  arms — surely  the  most  beauti- 
ful woman  that  ever  graced  a  ball-room.  She  had  not 
failed  in  her  design  for  a  dress,  for  the  very  moment  that 
Lady  Valentine's  eyes  were  upon  that  superb  costume, 
she  said  to  herself:  "  Whj',  she  has  tried  to  look  like  a 
eucharist  lily  herself!" 

The  next  moment  she  saw  the  duke  bowing  before  her, 
his  eyes  brightening  with  pleasure  at  the  lovely  woman. 
It  was  certainly  a  coincidence  that  he  should  wear  the 
flower  she  had  made  the  marvel  of  her  whole  costume. 
Yet  Lady  Valentine  knew,  and  was  just  enough  to  own, 
that  this  at  least  was  her  fault,  not  his. 

Surprise,  anger,  bitter  jealousy,  unreasoning  fear  at 
first  made  her  white  and  speechless.  Her  partner  won- 
dered what  had  suddenly  chilled  the  laughter  and  silvery 
words;  he  little  dreamed  that  the  loving  young  heart 
beating  so  near  him  was  torn  by  anguish  too  great  for 
words — he  Httle  dreamed  that  the  sight  of  that  beautiful 
woman  had  stabbed  the  young  girl  as  with  a  sharp- 
pointed  sword.  He  almost  forgot  his  companion  in  the 
wonder  of  those  beautiful  eucharist  lilies. 

"  Who  is  that  lady  ?"  he  asked  again,  and  Lady  Valen- 
tine compelled  herself  to  reply: 

Miss  Glynton,  the  American  beauty  and  heiress." 

"  Could  you  introduce  me.  Lady  Valentine  ?"  he  asked, 
almost  impatiently. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  coldly  ;  "  I  do  not  know  her — that  is, 
not  enough  to  introduce  any  one  else  to  her," 

What  a  bitter,  cruel,  crying  shame  it  seemed  to  her  that 
this  woman  should  have  dared  dress  in  that  fashion  ;  it 
was  done  to  captivate  him,  and  was  the  very  thing  she 
knew  to  please  and  fascinate  a  man.  Such  deference, 
such  a  desire  to  please ! 

As  for  the  duke  himself,  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  that 
beautiful  apparition,  he  did  not  know  whether  to  feel 
uost  flattered  or  most  aunoyed  f«r  Lady  Valentine's  sake. 


TH£  DUK£'S  SEOBfiT.  26ft 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

"do  you  UKE  loss  GLTNT05?'* 

**  I  SHALL  feel  half  ashamed  to  meet  him  again,"  said 
Lady  Valentine  to  herself  as  she  went  to  her  room.  "  I 
wish  there  were  no  dinners  ;  I  know  that  I  have  behaved 
wretchedly  to  Miss  Glynton,  but  there  are  limits  to  human 
endurance,  and  I  have  come  to  the  end  of  mine.  Why 
should  she  have  taken  up  all  his  time  and  attention  ? — 
why  should  he  have  given  them  to  her  ?  He  knows  how 
dearly  I  love  him,  and  he  should  not  have  left  me  for 
her.  She  shall  not  take  him  from  me,  beautiful,  calm  and 
grand  as  she  is.  I  will  give  him  up  to  no  one  in  this  world 
but  to  her — to  the  woman  who  is  his  wife." 

She  was  a  child  in  years,  but  a  woman  in  heart — this 
beautiful  young  girl  who  had  given  her  love  so  entirely 
to  the  duke.  Since  he  had  trusted  her  with  his  story  she 
had,  if  possible,  loved  him  better.  She  had  a  correct 
judgment,  clearer  ideas,  broader  views  of  life  than  many 
other  people.  She  could  understand  the  the  duke's  f  oUy, 
his  mad  love  for  a  beautiful  young  girl,  and  his  dread 
lest  his  mother — whose  hope  and  pride  he  was — should 
know  it. 

To  others  that  which  he  had  done  might  seem  like  the 
excess  of  cowardice  ;  she,  knowing  the  proud,  haughty 
nature  of  the  duchess,  could  make  allowances  for  it ;  she 
could  see  that,  over  a  nature  brave  and  fearless  as  bis 
was,  she  had  a  terrible  influence. 

"  I  know,"  sighed  Lady  Valentine,  "that  if  I  had  been 
even  her  daughter,  I  should  not  have  dared  to  tell  her  a 
love  story  that  would  have  displeased  her.  It  is  a  mis- 
fortune when  mothers  are  proud." 

She  was  loath  to  admit  any  flaw  in  this  idol  of  hers  ; 
she  would  rather  find  excuses  for  him  than  admit,  even 
to  her  inmost  heart,  that  he  had  ever  done  wrong.  There 
had  been  nothing  definitely  settled  between  them.  The 
duke  knew  she  loved  him,  but  there  seemed  to  be  an 
understanding  between  them  that  if  ever  the  duke  found 
that  he  was  free,  he  should  marry  Lady  Valentine.  No 
words  to  such  an  effect  passed  between  them,  but  it  wag 
tacitly  understood. 

More  than  once  the  duke  had  wished  it  otherwise  i  i| 


256  tE5t  duke's  secbbt. 

Beemed  to  him  so  unutterably  sad  that  her  bright  young 
life  should  be  spent  in  that  fashion.  Yet  he  knew  she 
loved  him  well  enough  to  be  happier  waiting  in  that 
fashion  for  him  than  in  sharing  the  throne  of  a  king. 

The  duke  saw  lovers  and  admirers  surrounding  her. 
He  knew  that  the  "  handsome  guardsman  "  would  have 
given  his  life  for  her  love,  and  he  cursed  the  fate  which 
had  attracted  this  true,  beautiful  love  where  it  could  meet 
so  little  return.  He  quite  understood  why  Lady  Valen- 
tine had  been  what  he  was  compelled  to  own  was  barely 
comteous  to  Miss  Glynton;  he  saw  the  jealous  pain  that 
had  blanched  the  fair,  young  face;  he  was  vexed  with 
himself,  yet  what  could  he  do? 

"  No  man  living,"  thought  the  duke  to  himself,  "  gets 
into  such  positions  as  I  do.  Circumstances  compelled  me 
to  do  as  I  have  done  to-day,  and  yet  I  have  wounded  the 
best  heart  in  the  world." 

He  was  in  the  most  dazed,  confused  state  of  mind;  but 
one  idea  seemed  pre-eminent  above  all  others,  he  must 
make  up  to  Lady  Valentine  for  the  pain  he  had  caused 
her.  Strange  that  the  same  motive  brought  both  of  them 
down  to  the  drawing-room  before  the  dinner-bell  rang. 

Lady  Valentine  looked  very  charming  in  her  evening- 
dress  of  white  lace,  trimmed  with  the  lovely  bells  of  the 
dai'k-blue  convolvuli;  she  wore  a  wi'eath  of  the  same 
flowers  on  her  head;  they  seemed  to  match  the  violet  eyes, 
and  showed  to  perfection  the  sunny  brown  hair.  She 
was  somewhat  staitled  to  find  the  duke  waiting  there,  evi- 
dently for  her;  her  fair  young  face  flushed,  then  paled. 
She  went  up  to  him  at  once,  her  trailing  white  lace  mak- 
ing a  line  of  light  across  the  floor.  She  stood  just  before 
him,  her  head  drooping  and  her  hands  tightly  clasped. 
She  did  not  look  up  at  him,  but  her  lips  quivered  slightly. 

"  I  am  ashamed  of  myself,  duke,"  she  said.  "  I  really 
did  not  know  that  I  had  such  a  perverse,  evil  temper.  1 
did  not,  indeed,  but  I  could  not  be  civil  to  her,  and  I  did 
try.  I  will  tell  you  all  my  faults  before  you  have  time  to 
speak.  I  had  thought  so  much  of  a  happy  day,  and  very 
soon  after  it  begins,  she  comes  in  with  her  beautiful  face 
and  charming  manner,  looking,  I  know,  quite  irresistible; 
and  then  you  go  away  with  her  on  the  beautiful  sunlit 
river.  I  know  she  looked  most  beautiful  out  there  in  the 
sunshine,  and  she  had  you  all  to  herself.      I  could  fancy 


THE  duke's  secret.  267 

ftU  the  time  all  the  pleasant  words  you  were  uttering  to 
her." 

"My  dear,  you  are  quite  mistaken;  she  gave  me  a  ter- 
rible shock." 

"A  shock!"  cried  Lady  Valentine,  half  delighted,  yet 
half  ashamed  of  her  delight — "a  shock! — what  was  it?" 

"  Nothing  that  she  said  or  did,  my  dear  ;  but  I  saw  her 
to-day  more  clearly  than  I  have  done  before.  I  saw  the 
profile  of  her  face,  and  there  was  such  a  strange  likeness 
in  it  to  some  one  I  once  knew  that  it  was  a  shock  to  me." 

"Is  that  all?"  laughed  Lady  Valentine.  "lam  afraid 
that  I  was  in  great  hopes  she  had  done  or  said  something 
that  had  really  shocked  you.  A  likeness  is  nothing.  But 
I  must  go  on  with  my  own  story.  You  came  back  and 
brought  her  with  you." 

"  Nay,  not  exactly  that ;  I  could  not  and  did  not  try  to 
prevent  her  coming ;  but  it  is  not  quite  fair  to  say  I 
brought  her.  It  was  a  settled  engagement  for  her  to  re* 
turn  to  the  flower-stall ;  you  must  be  just  to  me,  even 
though  you  quarrel  with  me." 

Lady  Valentine's  face  brightened  ever  so  little.  She 
rather  enjoyed  hearing  him  defend  himself  in  this  fashion. 

"  Grant  even  that,"  she  said  ;  "  when  you  saw  that  I  re- 
solved she  could  have  no  flowers,  why  did  you  give  her 
that  beautiful  eucharist  lily,  which  you  must  have  known 
I  saved  for  you  ?    That  was  the  most  cruel  blow  of  all," 

The  duke  laughed  a  little  uneasily. 

"I  did  not  see  what  else  I  could  have  done,"  he  replied; 
"  no  gentleman  could  have  stood  there  and  listen  to  a  lady 
asking  in  those  pleading  terms  for  a  flower,  and  then  take 
away,  without  offering  it  to  her,  the  very  best  flower; 
besides,  Valentine,  my  dear,  why  do  you  dislike  her? 
—Miss  Glynton,  I  mean?  " 

"You  know  why  I  dislike  her,  San  Sebastian;  you 
know  quite  well  that  I  am  jealous  of  her,  and  that  you 
give  me  cause,  and  you  tall  to  her,  and  spend  more  time 
with  her  than  you  do  with  any  other  lady.  You  know," 
she  continued,  with  a  loving  smOe  that  quite  disarmed 
him,  "you  have  spoiled  me  ;  until  Miss  Glynton  came 
you  never  seemed"  to  notice  any  one  but  me,  and  now 
quite  suddenly,  and  without  any  fault  of  mine,  I  have  to 
take  a  second  place.     It  is  not  quite  fair,  is  it  ?  " 

"  My  dearest  Valentine,  you  must  know  that  I  would 


liSd  TflE  duke's  secret. 

never  put  you  in  any  second  place.  You  have  a  place 
quite  your  own  in  my  breast — no  one  can  take  it." 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  that,  duke  ?  "  she  asked,  and  her 
face  was  fresh  and  fair,  her  eyes  so  clear  and  true,  she 
looked  so  young  and  loving,  he  took  one  little  white 
band  in  his  and  drew  her  closer  to  him. 

It  was  an  imprudence,  but  he  had  not  stopped  to  think 
of  that.  The  love  in  her  eyes,  her  face,  her  words,  had 
made  him  more  reckless  than  he  was  wont  to  be. 

"  Valentine,"  he  said,  "  we  must  not  quarrel  ;  I  can  not 
quarrel  with  you,  and  will  not  let  you  quarrel  with  me. 
I  never  meant  to  vex  you." 

She  did  nob  take  her  white  hand  away,  but  laid  the 
other  on  it,  and  the  duke  took  both  prisoners  and  held 
them  fast.  Then  it  seemed  natural  that  he  should  draw 
her  even  nearer  to  him,  and  one  arm  stole  round  the  sup- 
ple figure. 

"We  must  not  quarrel,  Valentine,"  he  said. 

"  Then  you  must  not  take  beautiful  ladies  on  the  river 
and  give  tliem  my  flowers,"  she  said. 

"I  will  not ;  I  will  never  do  anything  again  that  will 
possibly  vex  you,  Valentine,  dearest,  even  in  the  least; 
now  do  you  believe  me?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

It  was  exquisitely  sweet  to  her  that  he  shoidd  stand 
by  her  in  that  caressing  fashion;  she  had  never  been  so 
happy  before. 

"  You  know,  Valentine,"  he  said,  with  a  smile  half  lov- 
ing, half  sad,  that  if  I  were  free,  if  it  were  not  for  this 
tie — tbis  vague,  shadowless  tie  which,  nevertheless,  binds* 
me  more  strongly  than  death — but  for  that  you  know  how 
gladly,  how  lovingly  I  would  ask  you  to  be  my,  wife. 
Now  tliis  moment  you  know  why  I  never  must  speak  to 
you  of  my  love — until  I  know  whether  I  may  do  so  or 
Aot ;  you  understand — you  know  there  never  was  a  man 
in  a  position  so  peculiar  as  mine." 

"  I  know,"  she  replied,  quietly. 

"  Therefore,  tied,  trammeled,  chained,  as  I  am,  I  can 
neither  say  nor  do  as  I  like  ;  you  know  that  I  can  not 
appear  as  your  lover,  you  know  that  I  must  not  even  be 
your  loved  until  I  know  more  of  my  fate." 

"I  know  that  I  am  the  ungenerous  one  to  add  to  your 
troubles  by  being  jealous.    I  want  to  share  them,  and  heljy 


THE  DUKE*S   SECRET.  269 

you  to  lyear  them — not  increase  them ;  indeed,  I  "will  be 
quite  good  in  the  future.  I  can  not  promise  to  be  very 
amiable  to  Miss  Gljnton,  but  I  shall  not  certainly  be  as 
unamiable  to  you  for  a  long  time." 

He  would  have  liked  to  thank  her  by  a  kiss;  but  that 
would  not  do,  he  must  be  prudent 

"  I  should  like  to  ask  you  just  one  question,  as  we  are 
speaking  of  the  matter,"  she  said.  "Tell  me,  do 
you  really  like  Miss  Glynton — reaUy  f" 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he  answered. 

"  I  can  not  really  tell  you,  Valentine,"  he  said,  frankly. 
"There  are  times  when  I  think  I  like  her  very  much 
Indeed — there  are  times  again  when  I  am  in  some  strange 
way  afraid  of  her,  and  would  avoid  her.  She  has  a  pecu- 
liar influence  over  me  which  I  can  not  understand." 

"  I  dt>  not  iike  to  hear  that,"  said  Lady  Valentine, 
frankly,  "  Are  you  quite  sure  that  you  do  not  like  hei 
one-half  as  much  as  you  do  me  ?" 

He  looked  puzzled  for  a  few  minutes,  then  said: 

"It  is  in  quite  a  different  fashion,  Valentine;  I  can 
neither  measure  one  nor  the  other." 

Then  her  Grace  of  Castlemayne  entered  with  stately 
step,  and  the  tete-a-tete  was  ended. 

CHAPTER  XLVL 

A   PICTURE   FOR   LOVERS. 

Lady  Valentine  was  by  no  means  selfish;  she  had  one 
of  the  finest  natures  in  tiie  world.  She  was  frank,  open, 
bright,  and  with  all  her  cleverness  had  a  winning  sim- 
plicity that  was  rare.  She  meant  what  she  said,  and  she 
spoke  her  thoughts.  She  was  unworldly  enough,  too,  to 
show  her  likes  and  dislikes  pretty  frankly.  She  certainly 
never  had  to  make  a  great  effort  to  control  herself. 

"It  is  direct  encouragement,"  she  said.  "He  just  for 
courtesy's  sakd  gives  her  a  flower,  and  she  dresses  herself 
in  this  outrageous  fashion. 

Yet,  outrageous  as  it  might  be,  she  was  compelled  to 
own  that  it  was  magnificent  and  original.  Before  Miss 
Glynton  she  had  been  queen  of  the  ball-room,  now  she 
had  a  rival,  if  not  a  superior,  but  nothing  of  that  kind 
would  have  troubled  her,  save  for  the  dress  and  the  flowers. 
If  Miss  GlyntoQ  had  covered  herself  with  diamonds  and 


260  THE  duke's  secret. 

rubies  of  the  most  costly  kind,  Lady  Valentine  would 
have  laughed  indifferently; — as  it  was,  her  magnificent 
attire  seemed  to  show  that  there  was  more  than  ordinary 
friendship  between  heibelf  and  the  duke.  Go  where  she 
would,  Lady  Valentine  was  sure  to  hear  some  laughing, 
good  natured  remark  about  it. 

"  I  beUeve  we  shall  have  an  American  duchess  after 
all,"  said  more  than  one  shrewd  matron,  within  her  hear- 
ing. "The  flowers  look  very  peculiar  ;  quite  a  novel 
way  of  expressing  ideas."  Until  to  Lady  Valentine  it 
seemed  as  though  she  was  surrounded  by  hissing  whispers 
that  distracted  her. 

Miss  Glynton's  dress  would  have  had  no  significance 
in  a  stranger's  eyes  but  for  the  dvike  wearing  the  same 
flower.  How  bitterly  she  repented  now  having  given  it 
to  him.  "What  would  she  not  have  given  to  have  it  back 
again  ?  Why  should  she  not  ask  him  for  it  ?  It  had 
been  hers  to  give — it  was  hers  to  take  away.  She  would 
wait  her  opportunity,  and  finding  him  alone,  would  ask 
for  it.  The  ball,  before  so  bright  and  pleasant,  was 
spoiled  to  her  ;  even  the  pleasant  memory  of  that  happy 
half-hour  spent  veith  him  could  not  lighten  her  heart— it 
was  all  wrong.  Yet  she  could  not  quite  see  that  the  duke 
was  to  blame.  Her  anger  and  indignation  were  against 
Miss  Glynton.  No  lady  had  any  right  to  make  such  an 
advance,  no  matter  how  much  she  cared  for  a  person. 
The  girl  little  thought  that  one  great  object  had  been  to 
teach  her  a  lesson  ;  her  indignation  would  have  been  re- 
doubled had  she  known  that. 

While  the  duke,  who  had  not  at  first  seen  the  beautiful 
American,  wondered  why  people  smiled  so  kindly  and  in 
such  an  amused  fashion  at  him — why  they  talked  to  him 
about  his  colors ;  he  did  not  understand  it ;  but  he  knew 
quickly  enough  what  it  meant  when  he  saw  Miss  Glynton 
in  all  her  magnificence  ;  he  was  pleased,  flattered,  amused; 
his  laughing  eyes  and  laughing  lips  told  how  much  he 
appreciated  it. 

He  came  quite  suddenly  face  to  face  with  her,  and  their 
eyes  met.  Hers  fell  on  the  white  bloom  he  carried,  then 
the  magnificent  face  flushed,  and  Miss  Glynton  bent  her 
head.  He  talked  to  her  on  different  matters  until  the 
groups  had  passed  and  they  were  alone,  then  he  looked 
at  her  with  Wghter  and  pleasure  boiii  in  his  face. 


THE  duke's  secret.  261 

**Is  it  permitted  to  admire  what  is  the  most  beautiful 
toilet  I  have  ever  seen?"  he  asked.  "A  characteristic 
toilet,  I  may  call  it." 

"  I  am  glad  you  admire  it,"  she  said  ;  "  all  admiration 
is  a  source  of  pleasure." 

He  could  not  tell,  either  from  her  voice  or  manner, 
whether  she  was  using  the  word  ironically  or  not  ;  but  he 
did  think  that  this  woman,  whose  face  reminded  him  of 
Naomi,  was  the  most  charming  woman  he  had  ever 
beheld. 

"  I  do  not  believe  that  you  care  much  for  admiration, 
Miss  Glynton,"  he  said.  "  If  you  did  you  would  be  kinder 
to  some  of  these  sighing  admirers  of  yours." 

"  Kindness  is  often  cruel  in  the  sense  you  mean  it," 
said  the  fair  woman,  calmly.  "  If  the  whole  breeze  that 
bends  the  summer  boughs  were  made  of  lovers'  oaths,  it 
would  not  even  ever  so  faintly  touch  my  heart." 

"  Then  your  heart  must  be  very  hard,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  well  for  me,"  she  answered,  with  a  little  bitter 
laugh.     "  People  with  the  hardest  hearts  suffer  least." 

"  And  enjoy  least,"  he  added,  "  do  not  forget  that.  But» 
Miss  Glynton,  I  am  not  to  be  stranded  on  the  shore  of 
argument;  I  want  to  talk  about  this  toilet.  It  is  mysti- 
cal, beautiful.  Tell  me  if  it  was  for  me  you  wore  it?  I 
know  the  seeming  vanity  and  self-presumption  of  such  a 
question,  but  I  pray  of  you  to  answer  it." 

He  was  agitated  far  more  than  she  knew.  Surely  what 
love  he  had  left  in  him  was  given  to  Lady  Valentine,  yet 
there  was  something  almost  wonderful  in  the  influence 
that  this  beautiful  woman  had  over  him.  He  had  not 
intended  dancing  with  her,  because  he  was  resolved  not 
to  grieve  Lady  Valentine  in  the  least.  He  said  to  himself 
if  Miss  Glynton  was  at  the  ball  he  would  not  seek  her. 
The  pain  on  the  young  girl's  face  had  touched  him,  and 
he  had  determined  it  should  have  a  place  there  no  more; 
but  now  he  was  powerless.  The  sweet,  sad  notes  of  a 
waltz  came  floating  to  them;  she  looked  up  at  him,  speak- 
ing no  word  with  her  lips,  but  never  did  eyes  say  more, 
and  the  next  minute  they  were  among  the  dancers. 

"  You  havG  not  answered  my  question,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Nor  do  I  intend  to,"  she  replied,  laughingly.  "  You 
want  to  know — I  read  your  thought— if   I  have  chosea 


262  THE  duke's  secret. 

this  dress  you  gave  me,  in  so  kind  and  courteous  a  man- 
ner, that  flower.     Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"Yes,"  repUed  the  duke,  briefly;  "that  is  it." 

"  Then  I  am  sorry  to  say  I  can  not  gratify  your  curios- 
ity.    You  must  find  it  out  if  it  be  worth  discovering." 

"  Find  it  out,"  said  the  duke,  dismayed.  "  I  am  the 
very  worst  in  the  world  at  finding  out." 

"You  will  find  exercise  for  your  diplomatic  talents," 
she  said,  and  she  laughed  and  blushed  over  again  as  she 
saw  the  white  bloom  he  wore  in  his  breast  "  People  will 
say  you  carry  mj  colors,"  she  said. 

"  They  have  done  so,  and  a  great  deal  more  besides, 
but  you  will  not  care  for  that." 

"  I  care  but  httle  what  is  said.  The  voice  of  rumor,  of 
scandal,  never  touches  me.  I  could  not  heed  it  if  I  tried. 
Now  we  can  take  our  places." 

It  seemed  to  him  that  she  gave  up  her  mind  entirely 
to  the  beauty  of  the  music;  there  was  not  the  least  at- 
tempt at  coquetry.  He  never  could  get  over  the  impres- 
sion that  those  clear  blue  eyes  were  looking  over  him. 
He  did  not  see  Lady  Valentine  among  the  dancers,  and 
he  did  not  know  where  she  was.  He  wondered  what  she 
should  think  of  this  toilet,  and  lost  himself  in  a  reverie. 

"  Duke,"  said  a  sweet  clear  voice,  "  you  should  always 
attend  to  what  you  are  doing:  the  idea  of  dancing  and 
faUing  into  a  reverie  so  profound  that  you  do  not  even 
know  when  the  music  stops." 

He  apologized  half  laughingly,  and  then  went  through 
the  ball-room  into  one  of  the  many  flower-scented  rooms 
that  Lady  Layard  had  set  apart  for  the  express  purpose 
of  conversation. 

The  room  they  entered  was  arranged  peculiarly ;  there 
was  a  large  group  of  suberb  eastern  plants  in  the  middle 
of  the  department;  in  the  centre  of  them  was  an  easy- 
chair,  and  a  small  scented  fountain.  The  dripping  of  the 
silver  spray  alone  broke  the  silence.  There  was  only  room 
for  one  and  Miss  Glynton  smiled  as  she  took  the  seat. 
"This  is  not  very  sociable,"  she  said,  while  the  duke  took 
his  seat  between  two  great  crimson  flowers  ;  one  entering 
the  room  would  think  at  first  sight  that  he  was  alone,  it 
was  only  on  drawing  quite  near  that  the  pretty  interior 
•ould  be  seen.    ' '  What  a  curious  arrangement,"  said  Misg 


TKB  duie's  secket.  263 

Glynton,  *'  what  a  pretty  little  fountain  ;  and,  duke,  what 
a  very  sweet  woman  Lady  Layard  is." 

"Sweet,"  be  replied.  "Well,  1  knew  there  was  some 
word  which  described  her  exactly,  now  I  know  what  it  is. 
Lady  Nell,"  the  old  name  came  quite  natural  to  his  lips — 
"is  not  beautiful,  not  pretty,  but  she  is  just  what  you  ex- 
press it — sweet.  She  was  a  most  amiable  child,"  and  the 
duke  sighed  deeply,  as  he  remembered  what  had  been 
into  his  life  through  the  innocent  agency  of  Lady  NelL 

She  looked  at  him  keenly,  as  he  sighed,  and  did  not 
seem  displeased. 

"A  strange  thing,"  she  said,  musingly.  "You  have 
been  surrounded  by  the  fairest  woman  in  the  world,  and 
yet  you  have  been  a  woman  hater — at  least  the  world  says 

BO." 

"The  world,  as  usual,  is  wrong,"  replied  the  duke, 
gloomily. 

He  wished  that  this  fair  woman  could  know  why  they 
called  him  woman  hater — it  was  because  he  had  loved  one 
woman  too  well. 

"  Can  you  reach  those  flowers,"  she  asked,  as  though 
anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  that  reminds  me  of  the  most 
charming  little  ballad  I  read  yesterday,  about  climbing 
flowers.  This  is  just  the  time  and  place  for  it.  Would  you 
like  to  hear  it?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied,  lying  back  in  the  most  indolent  fash- 
ion— "that  I  most  certainly  should;  but  you  must  not 
apeak  louder  than  the  murmur  of  the  faUing  spray." 

He  laughed. 

"  You  like  everything  in  harmony,"  he  said.  "  Noif 
listen,  Miss  Glynton,  these  words  are  music : 

♦*  *  Up  to  her  chamber  window 
A  slight  viae  trellis  goes. 
And  np  this  Romeo's  ladder 
Clambers  a  bold  whitf  rose. 

**  *  I  lonnge  in  the  ilex  shadows, 

I  see  the  lady  lean,  ; 

Unclasping  her  silken  girdle, 
The  curtain's  folds  between. 

**  *  She  smiles  on  her  white-rose  loTCfll^ 

She  reaches  out  her  hand,  ^ 

And  helps  him  in  at  the  window  } 
I  see  it  where  I  stand. 


264  THE  duke's  secret. 

•*  *  To  her  scarlet  lips  she  holds  him, 
And  kisses  him  many  a  time. 
Ah,  me,  it  was  he  that  wop  her, 
Because  he  dared  to  climb.' " 

She  opened  her  eyes  when  the  rich  voice  ceased. 

"Yes,  that  ia  a  pretty  poetical  fancy,"  she  said — "very 
flweet  poetry  is  twice  poetry,  when  one  hears  it  in  the 
midst  of  flowers. 

Then  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  for  the  door  of  the 
room  opened  and  Lady  Valentine  Arden  entered  alone 
and  walked  up  to  the  duke,  evidently  thinking  that  he, 
too,  was  alone. 

CHAPTER  XLVn. 

"  I    BELIEVE   THEBE   HAS   BEEN   A   CURSE   ON   ME." 

Lady  Valentine  Arden  quite  believed  the  duke  to  be 
alone.  She  did  not  see  the  particular  arrangement  of 
the  flowers,  nor  the  beautiful  face  framed  therein.  She 
went  up  to  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne,  her  face  pale,  and 
her  eyes  full  of  light. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you,"  sh,  said,  "  but  I  could  not 
find  you."  Her  voice  took  an  imperious  tone  as  she 
added  :  "  I  want  you  to  be  very  particular.  Please  give 
me  back,  at  once,  the  flower  you  are  wearing — the  flower 
I  was  so  foolish  as  to  give  you — at  once — do  you  hear, 
duke  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  earnest  manner;  but  the  smile,  in  her 
jealous  mood,  was  hateful  to  her. 

"  What  an  impetuous  demand,"  he  said.  "  What  is  the 
matter  ?    What  have  I  done  ?  " 

•'  You  have  done  nothing.  Never  mind  what  is  the 
matter.     Give  me  the  flower  at  once." 

"  I  do  not  feel  willing  to  part  with  it ;  you  gave  it  to 
me,"  he  replied. 

"  Therefor'*  I  have  a  right  to  demand  it  back.  I  was 
foolish  to  give  it  to  you,  but  I  have  learned  my  lesson." 

"  Why,  Valentine,  your  are  quite  angry.  Some  things 
are  beyond  all  bounds,  all  limits  of  patience,  and  this  is 
one  of  them." 

"  What  is  one  of  them  ?" 

"  Wliut  is  one  of  them  ?"  asked  i  he  duke,  gently.  "  You 
forget  that  I  do  not  know  yet — what  is  wrong?" 

" Wrong  1"    cried   Lady    Valentine,    "I— I   have    no 


THE  DUKE'S  SECEET.  265 

patience  with  it.  Do  you  really  mean  to  say,  duke,  that 
you  iiave  not  noticed  how  Miss  Glyuton  has  dressed  her- 
self— just  like  a  eucharist  lily.  She  must  have  studied  it. 
And  it  is  to  please  you,  I  know." 

"  Oh,  Valentine,"  cried  the  duke,  with  a  look  of  horror 
on  his  face,  "  hush,  you  do  not  know — " 

"  I  do  not  care  to  know  anything.  Give  me  back  that 
flower,  that  I  may  destroy  it,  and  trample  it  under  foot 
I  said  I  would  not  be  j — " 

"  Hush,  Valentine,"  cried  the  duke  ;  "  do  you  not  see  ?" 
and  following  his  glance,  her  eyes  fell  on  the  beautiful 
smiling  face  of  Miss  Glynton. 

"  If  I  had  known  that  you  were  going  to  speak  of  me, 
Lady  Valentine,"  she  said,  "  I  would  have  warned  you  of 
my  presence." 

It  was  quite  a  dramatic  scene — the  two  beautiful  faces  look- 
ing at  each  other,  the  duke  anxious  and  bewildered.  Lady 
Valentine's  eyes  sought  his  with  a  look  of  unutterable  re- 
proach. 

"  You  should  have  told  me,"  she  said. 

"  I  had  no  time.  How  could  I  tell  that  you  did  not  see 
Miss  Glynton  ?" 

"  It  is  all  for  the  best,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  with  a  calm 
smile;  "  I  think  it  is  perhaps  for  the  best  that  we  should 
know  what  people  think  of  us.  So  you  think.  Lady  Valen- 
tine, that  I  chose  my  dress  exactly  for  the  purpose  of  pleas- 
ing his  grace,  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lady  Valentine,  "  I  do. " 

"  And  I,  in  my  turn,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  "  acknowledge 
that  you  are  quite  right.  I  gave  myself  both  time  and 
trouble  over  my  dress,  and  it  w  as  done  purposely  to  please 
him.     What  then,  Lady  Valentine?" 

She  never  looked  at  the  duke,  while  she  spoke,  but  kept 
her  eyes  fixed  on  the  young  face,  that  alternately  flushed 
and  grew  pale. 

"  What  then.  Lady  Valentine  ?"  she  repeated.  "  Because 
the  duke  was  coui-teous  when  you  failed  in  courtesy — be- 
cause I  tried  to  repay  the  compliment  he  paid  me — because 
I  have  chosen,  perhaps  in  a  fanciful  fashion,  to  carry  out 
my  own  idea — why  you  should  feel  annoyed  I  do  not  un- 
derstand. " 

For  all  answer  Lady  Valentine  turned  to  the  duke  and 
held  out  her  hand. 


266  TBI  DTTKE's  SEOltBT. 

"  Gire  me  what  I  ask,"  she  said,  "  and  nothing  further 
will  matter  to  me." 

Miss  Glynton  went  on  quite  calmly. 

"  This  is  rather  an  unusual  kind  of  scene,  but  I  fancy  1 
can  understand  it.  Lady  Valentine  is  annoyed  because 
the  flowers  I  wear  and  the  flower  the  diike  wears  are  the 
same.  Lady  Valentine  gave  it  to  you,  duke,  you  are 
bound  to  return  it  when  she  asks  for  it." 

"  I  have  never  been  placed  in  such  strange  circum- 
stances before,"  said  the  duke.  "  I  hardly  know  what  to 
do." 

"  Do  as  I  wish,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  quickly. 

"  Do  as  I  wish,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  with  a  calm  smile 
on  her  grand  face.  "  Give  Lady  Valentine  what  she 
asks." 

Slowly  enough  the  duke  took  the  eucharist  lily  from  his 
breast  and  held  it  out  to  her.  There  was  a  strange  smile 
on  Miss  Glynton 's  face  as  she  watched  the  scene.  The 
girl  eagerly  took  the  white  blossom,  tore  it  into  a  dozen 
pieces,  and  threw  them  away. 

"  There  is  an  end  to  it,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  "  an  end  of  the  flower,  cer- 
tainly, but  the  consequences  have  to  follow.  What  you 
have  just  done  is  an  act  that  must  bear  many  interpreta- 
tions. To  begin  with,  it  is  an  avowed  act  of  hostility  to  me. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  wish  to  deny  this  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  I  do  not." 

''  But  you  seemed  inclined  to  favor  me  with  your  liking 
once,  Lady  Valentine — why  have  you  changed  your 
opinion  of  me  ?  " 

She  waited  for  an  answer,  but  none  came.  There  was 
a  passionate  flush  on  the  girl's  fair  face  as  she  turned 
away. 

"That  was  all  I  wanted,  duke,"  she  said,  trying  to 
speak  calmly.  "  I  am  sorry  to  have  interrupted  a  tete-a- 
tete" 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  did  not  see  me  the  first  moment 
you  entered — it  would  have  saved  a  very  unpleasant 
scene,"  said  Miss  Glynton.  "  I  am  soiTy,  too,  that  you 
are  vexed  with  me,  because  I  like  you,  Lady  Valentine." 

"You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,"  replied  the  earl's 
daught«r,  as  she  swept  one  of  her  most  haughty  and 


YHE  BVZE*i  SECBET.  267 

graceful  courtesies  before  the  lady  who  was  equally 
proud  and  graceful  as  herself. 

It  was  impossible  to  say  which  fair  lady  had  won  the 
victory.  The  scattered  white  leaves  lay  on  the  ground. 
Lady  Valentine  had  swept  from  the  room,  and  Miss 
Glynton  had  resumed  her  seat  with  the  grace  of  a  queen. 
The  duke  still  stood  looking  bewildered. 

"  That  comes  of  poetry  and  flowers,"  she  said.  "  How 
sorry  I  am  that  Lady  Valentine  did  not  see  me." 

"  I  must  have  lost  my  senses,"  said  the  duke.  "  I  may 
say  I  have  lost  them.  I  ought  to  have  told  her  you  were 
here  ;  but  she  was  so  quick,  so  impetuous,  so  eager,  I  had 
no  chance." 

"  There  can  only  be  one  interpretation  put  upon  it,* 
said  Miss  Glynton;  "yet  that  is  a  strange  one." 

"  Why  is  it  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  can  only  imagine,"  she  replied,  "  that  Lady  Valen- 
tine has  done  me  the  honor  of  being  jealous  of  me.  I  can 
not  teU  why." 

"She  is  so  impulsive,"  he  repUed.  "What  would  be 
jealousy  in  another  is  nothing  but  impetuosity  in  her." 

Miss  Glynton  leaned  her  beautiful  head  on  the  crimson 
fauteuiL 

•'  I  wish,"  she  said,  gently,  "that  I  knew  you  better;  I 
should  like  to  say  something  to  you.  If  it  would  not  of- 
fend you." 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  that,"  he  replied,  warmly.  "  You 
could  never  offend  me,  and  I  shall  be  only  too  pleased  to 
hear  anything  you  may  say  to  me." 

"  I  can  say  it  in  a  few  words,  duke.  Never  play  with  a 
woman's  heart  It  is  the  most  deadly  amusement  a  man 
ever  engages  in,  and  the  most  unworthy.  If  you  love, 
say  so,  and  marry  her;  but  never  play  at  lo^e  and  forget 
the  price  to  be  paid." 

"I  have  never  played  with  love  in  my  life,  or  misled 
any  one  even  by  a  single  word,"  said  the  duke,  quickly. 

"  You  must  not  think  I  am  speaking  at  random,  or'pre- 
suming,"  she  continued;  "but  I  can  not  help  drawing, 
from  the  little  scene  that  has  just  occurred,  the  conclusion 
that  Valentine  is  evidently  jealous — of  me.  Now  jealousy 
never  exists  without  love;  you  know  best  whether  you 
liave  given  her  cause  for  either." 

He  could  never  tell  how  the  sensation  came  to  him*  but 


268  THE  DUKE^S  SBOBET. 

he  had  it  strongly  that  he  was  in  some  way  accountable  t^ 
this  beautiful  woman  for  his  actions,  yet  how  foolish. 
What  had  it  to  do  with  her  ?  She  rose  as  she  uttered  the 
last  words  and  stood  before  him.  She  touched  his  arm 
for  one  moment,  with  the  tip  of  her  white  fingers. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  have  said  too  much;  I  mean  nothing 
but  kindnesa  Lady  Valentine  is  so  young,  and  the  young 
suffer  so  keenly." 

"  She  shall  never  suffer  through  me,"  he  replied,  hast- 

iiy. 

"I wish,"  she  continued  gravely,  "that  I  might  say 
something  else  to  you.  Give  me  the  privilege  of  an  old 
friend." 

"  I  will  give  you  any  privilege  you  like,"  he  answered, 
"any  you  will." 

"  Then  I  shall  take  that  of  a  very  old  and  perfectly  true 
friend,  and  ask  you  one  question.  Why  do  you  not  marry 
Lady  Valentine,  whose  girlish,  loving  heart,  whether 
you  know  it  or  not,  I  beUeve  you  have  won — why  not 
marry  her  ?" 

"  Because  I  am  the  most  unfortunate  man  that  ever 
lived;  I  believe  there  has  been  a  curse  on  me  all  my 
life." 

"  Most  people  draw  down  their  own  curses;  perhaps  you 
have  done  so.  Let  it  be  as  it  may,  remember  this — that 
the  most  cruel  thing  a  man  can  do  is  to  trifle  with  love,  or 
play  with  a  girl's  heart" 

"I  have  never  done  it,"  he  cried  again;  but  a  smile  ol 
incredulity  rippled  over  her  Ups. 

"  We  must  go  ;  we  have  had  a  pleasant  time  among  the 
flowers  here — only  for  that  unfortunate  Httle  contretemps. 
Now,  duke,  you  must  go  and  find  Lady  Valentine,  and 
make  your  peace  with  her." 

As  soon  as  they  advanced  into  the  room  Miss  Glynton 
was  surrounded  and  carried  off.  Her  impatient  partners 
looked  angrily  at  the  duke  ;  it  was  not  fair  to  have 
monopolized  the  belle  of  the  ball  so  long.  He  went  him- 
self in  search  of  Lady  Valentine,  and  found  her  with  a 
little  escort  of  admirers.  She  had  declined  dancing  ; 
and  though  she  was  laughing  and  talking  gayly,  he  saw 
that  she  looked  pale  and  there  was  a  faint  quiVer  on  her 
lips  in  the  midst  of  her  smiles.  He  tried  to  draw  nearer 
U>  her  and  join  ia  the  conversation,  but  she  gave  him  nQ 


THE  duke's  secret.  269 

Wicouragement ;  she  never  let  her  eyes  rest  on  him  for 
one  minute  ;  by  no  means  and  artifice  could  he  engage 
her  attention  for  one  second. 

At  length,  one  by  one,  the  little  group  went  away  ; 
there  was  something  in  the  duke's  face,  and  something  in 
hers  which  they  did  not  understand.  At  last  they  were 
as  alone  as  could  be  in  a  crowded  ball-room. 

"Valentine,"  said  the  duke,  "is  it  possible  you  are 
angry  with  me  ?  " 

"  What  do  you  think  about  it  yourself,"  she  replied, 
coldly. 

"  I  should  say  decidedly  not;  you  could  not  be  more 
sorry  than  I  was." 

"  You  ought  to  have  told  me  at  once.  Your  own  sense 
should  have  told  you  what  I  had  come  for;  you  have 
allowed  me  to  be  humiliated  before  the  one  woman  whom 
you  know  I  dishke,  and  I  shall  never  forgive  you  for  it — 
never.  Ah,  Captain  Bellaii-s,  is  this  our  waltz?  I  am 
quite  ready,"  and  she  went  away  with  a  smile  on  her  lips, 
while  a  sharp  sword  wounded  her  heart. 

CHAPTER  XliVnL 

•*CHOOSE    BETWEEK     US." 

It  is  long  past  midnight,  but  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne 
has  said  to  himself  that  most  decidedly  he  can  not,  will 
not  go  to  rest  without  having  seen  Lady  Valentine.  The 
more  he  thought  of  that  unlucky  scene  the  more  he  de- 
tested his  own  share  in  it.  If  he  had  but  been  quicker — 
but  then  he  never  dreamed  that  she  would  speak  to  Miss 
Glynton.  He  had  been  perfectly  innocent,  and  could  not 
bear  the  least  shadow  of  blame;  he  hated  the  whole 
recollection  of  it. 

He  could  see  that  it  was  natural  for  Lady  Valentine  to 
have  felt  a  httle  jealous;  that  he  frankly  admitted;  he 
had  felt  that  the  beautiful  toilet  was  intended  as  a  most 
flattering  compliment  to  him,  and  he  saw  nothing  Avonder- 
ful  in  the  fact  that  Lady  Valentine  was  not  well  pleased 
over  it;  considering,  also,  that  the  flower  she  had  given 
him  identified  him,  after  a  fashion,  with  Miss  Glynton; he 
did  not  wonder  that  she  asked  for  it  back. 

He  did  not  wonder  that  she  had  not  seen  the  fair, 
queenly  woman  who  had  granted  him  the  tMe-d-tete,  but 


S7d  TOE  duke's  SECRl!*. 

then  he  had  n«t  realized  how  completely  the  flowers  ha«I 
hidden  her  from  sight.  One  thing  he  did  realize,  and 
that  was  the  insanity  of  pain  he  had  seen  in  this  fair 
young  face;  he  knew  how  proud  she  was  and  how  greatly 
her  pride  must  have  suffered.    Altogether  it  was  to  him  a 

Eerfect  impossibility  that  he  could  rest  without  seeing 
er.  They  had  diiven  home  all  together,  but  the  duchess 
had  offered  the  fourth  seat  in  her  crrriage  to  Sir  Monro 
Kelly,  and  conversation  between  them  had  been  impos- 
sible. 

The  duchess  had  asked  for  some  coffee  as  they  reached 
home;  after  which  the  two  ladies  began  to  discuss  the 
ball,  and  he  waited  impatiently  for  a  chance  to  speak  to 
Lady  Valentine.  It  had  often  happened  in  this  way  be- 
fore, and  then,  when  the  duchess  took  up  i  book  just  to 
compose  herself  for  a  few  moments  before  going  to  rest, 
he  and  Lady  Valentine  had  talked  very  happily;  but  he 
began  to  think  it  was  not  to  be  so  to-night;  not  one  glance 
\ras  given  in  his  direction — not  the  faintest  intimation  of 
his  presence.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  his  exist- 
ence, but  as  she  sipped  her  fragrant  coffee  she  talked  con- 
tinually to  the  duchess. 

*'  It  is  too  bad,"  he  said  to  himself ;  what  have  I  done 
that  she  should  treat  me  so  ?  " 

When  he  found  everything  else  failed  he  wrote  three 
lines  and  laid  them  down  before  her.  She  raised  the 
folded  paper,  and  without  looking  at  it,  destroyed  it  as  she 
had  done  the  liiy.  Then  he  spoke  out,  and  the  decided 
anger  in  his  voice  pleased  her. 

"  Mother,"  he  said,  "  you  can  spare  Valentine  for  a  few 
minutes.  I  want  her  to  step  out  here;  this  balcony  is  so 
pleasant,  and  the  room  is  warm — heavy  with  all  those  flow- 
ers— the  air  is  full  of  fragrance,  one  would  think  all  Lon- 
don was  full  of  mignonette.    Come,  Valentine." 

The  duchess  languidly  took  up  a  book  which  lay  upon 
the  table. 

**  Go  to  that  impatient  son  of  mine  for  a  few  minutes, 
Valentine,"  she  said  ;  he  looks  at  me  as  though  he  had 
been  troubled." 

"Valentine,"  said  a  sad  and  imploring  voice,  "do  come; 
you  can  not  think  how  charming  it  is  ;  all  the  stars  in 
heaven  are  shining,  and  the  wmd  is  beautiful  over  the 
treea." 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET.  271 

**  Go  to  him,  my  dear,  for  a  few  minutes,"  said  the 
duchess,  who  could  refuse  nothing  to  her  idolized  son. 

The  habit  of  obedienee  was  so  strong  upon  Lady  Val- 
entine that  she  rose  at  once  ;  she  could  have  refused  the 
duke — she  never  dreamed  of  refusing  the  duchess. 

She  crossed  the  room,  drawing  a  black  lace  shawl  over 
the  shimmering  beauties  of  her  ball  dress,  and  looking 
fresh  and  fair  as  the  morning — with  the  least  possible 
tinge  of  pain  round  the  sweet  lips.  The  duchess  opened 
her  book  and  sunk  back  in  her  chair  with  the  faintest  sigh 
of  relief  ;  she  had  ceased  to  hope.  But  given  the  sweet- 
ness of  a  moonlight  summer's  night,  full  of  music  and 
perfume  —given  the  solitude  of  the  balcony  and  the  pale 
light  of  the  stars,  it  would  be  odd  surely  if  her  son  coiild 
resist  all  that.  But  then  she  said  to  herself,  with  a  shrug 
of  the  shoulders,  she  had  ceased  to  hope  ;  neither  moon- 
light, nor  beauty,  nor  anything  else  touched  him — while 
Lady  Valentine  half  crossed  the  room,  and  then  he  came 
to  her  ;  the  long  glass  door  leading  to  the  balcony  was 
open  ;  he  drew  her  to  him  and  closed  it.  There  it  seemed 
as  though  they  stood  alone  in  that  soft  summer  darkness 
with  every  star  in  heaven  shining  on  them. 

"Valentine,"  he  cried,  impetuously,  "how  cruel  you  are 
to  me  ;  why  will  you  not  speak  to  me  ?  What  have  I 
done  ?    Do  you  know  that  you  are  driving  me  mad  ?" 

"I  thought,"  she  said,  "you  wanted  me  to  see  the  stars.'* 

"  Never  mind  the  stars.  Valentine,  how  can  you  be  so 
unkind  ?  You  must  see  that  you  are  making  me  miser- 
able. Now  do  not  look  at  the  trees  ;  look  at  me.  I  could 
not  help  it  to-night ;  I  was  quite  as  much  vexed  as  you. 
Why  be  so  angry  with  me  ?" 

She  raised  her  face,  so  young  and  fair,  in  the  white 
moonlight,  to  his. 

"  Have  you  asked  me  here  purposely  to  talk  about  this  ?** 
she  said. 

"  Yes,  I  have.  Do  you  think  I  could  rest — sleep — be 
happy,  or  anything  else,  until  you  had  spoken  to  me,  Val- 
entine ?  I  could  not.  I  would  have  sat  up  all  night  but 
I  must  have  seen  you.  Dearest  Valentine,  I  am  so 
sorry." 

"  I  do  not  quite  understand,"  she  said,  slowly.  "  You 
have  treated  me  strangely  altogether.  When  I  came  here, 
you — ^you  made  me  love  you.     I  cannot  tell  whether  ii 


272  THE  duke's  secbet. 

was  your  fault  or  mine.  Then  you  trusted  me,  told  me 
the  story  of  your  life,  and  I  promised  to  help  you — to  be 
your  truest  friend ;  and  it  was  arranged  that  if  you  found 
yourself  free  I  had  yom-  heart  and  love,  and  I  was  as  happy 
as  I  could  be  with  your  affection  and  trust.  Now  this 
woman  comes  between  us  and  takes  you  from  me." 

"  She  does  not,  Valentine,"  cried  the  duke. 

"  Yes,  pardon  me,  she  does.  You  have  never  paid  half 
80  much  attention  to  anyone  else  as  to  her." 

"  I  have  told  you,"  he  said,  "  that  she  has  the  strangest 
influence  over  me — I  cannot  help  myself." 

"Then  if  you  cannot  help  it,  why  contradict  me  when 
I  speak  about  it?" 

"I  mean  that  I  can  not  help  the  influence  she  has  over 
me,  Valentine.  I  can  not  account  for  it ;  I  try  to  shake 
it  ofl",  but  I  can  not." 

"Do  you  love  her?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  that  kind  of  influence,"  said  the  duke  ; 
**  there  is  something  weird  and  uncanny  about  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "that  there  never  was 
a  position  so  peculiar  as  yours,  or  so  painful.  I  havQ,  told 
you,  and  I  meant  it,  that  I  would  rather  be  your  friend 
than  the  wife  of  any  other  man;  but  I  can  not  bear  to  see 
you  devote  your  time  and  attention  to  a  stranger  like  Miss 
Glynton.  If  your  own  wife  came  back  to  you  living  and 
true,  I  should  not  be  jealous.  I  should  be  honestly,  frankly, 
nobly  glad  ;  if  you  were,  I  should  love  her  and  do  all  1 
could  for  her;  but  I  will  not  even  know  this  woman  who 
dresses  for  you,  and  makes  every  one  talk  as  though  you 
were  going  to  marry  her  to-morrow.  Some  things  are  too 
<nuch  for  human  nature;  that  is  too  much  for  me;  she  had 
no  right  to  dress  in  that  fashion  for  you  !" 

"  She  had  no  meaning  in  it — it  was  mere  caprice,  Valen- 
tine." 

"No,  it  was  not  caprice,  it  was  a  settled,  regular  plan 
for  pleasing  you  and  attaching  you  to  herseli';  and  then, 
oh,  Sebastian,  she  heard  me  say  I  was  jealous;  she  heard 
me  ask  for  the  flower.  I  wiU  never  meet  here  again, 
never." 

"  Do  not  say  that,  Valentine,"  he  cried,  "  you  will  think 
better  of  it ;  you  could  not  refuse  to  meet  her." 

"Then you  must  promise  me  to  give  up  flirting,  or 
whatever  you  call  it.     She  must  not  use  what  you  call 


THE  duke's  secret.  373 

her  influence,  nor  must  you  submit  to  it.  The  time  has 
really  come  when  you  must  choose  between  us.  It  makes 
me  very  unhappy  to  see  all  that  I  see.  If  she  is  to  be 
your  friend  and  confidante,  you  do  not  want  me.  If  I 
am  your  friend,  you  do  not  want  her." 

"  Logically  argued,  Valentine,"  he  said. 

"  Never  mind  logic,"  said  the  girl.  "  I  have  made  np 
my  mind  ;  choose  between  us — choose  the  one  you  like 


"My  dearest  Valentine,  be  reasonable/' 

"  I  can  not.  I  do  not  intend  ;  you  might  as  well  call 
one  of  those  stars  down  from  heaven  as  to  ask  me  to 
change  my  decision.  I  know  nothing  about  reason,  nor 
do  I  wish,  but  I  do  know  what  :you  must  do  to  preserve 
my  friendship — you  must  give  '^p  Miss  Glynton  or  give 
up  me.     Good-night,  duke." 

And  before  he  knew  where  she  was  she  had  gone  back 
to  the  duchess,  and  was  bidding  her  good-night. 

CHAPTER  XLIX 

A   PEEMONITION. 

**  Bbrtrand,"  said  the  duchess,  laying  down  her  book 
with  the  most  polite  attempt  to  stifle  a  yawn,  "  I  would 
not  stand  out  in  the  night  air  any  longer.  Valentine  has 
gone — she  seemed  very  tired,  I  thought.  I  will  say  good- 
night," and  the  duchess  looked  anxiously  at  her  son  as  he 
eame  into  the  room. 

If  he  would  but  trust  her,  would  but  talk  to  her  as 
other  sons  did  to  their  mothers — would  but  trust  her ! 
She  saw  lines  of  care  and  anxiety  on  his  handsome  face, 
but  could  not  teU  why  they  were  there. 

"The  night  air  must  be  cold,"  she  said,  "and  you  do 
not  look  well  to-night,  Bertrand." 

"I  am  well  enough,  mother,"  he  said;  "It  is  your  fancy. 
You  are  always  thinking  about  me,  and  you  imagine 
things."  The  duchess  merely  replied  by  a  sigh;  it  was 
not  the  least  use  speaking. 

"  I  think,"  he  continued,  "  I  will  have  one  cigar  out 
here  under  the  stars,  and  then  I  will  go  in.  Good-night, 
mother." 

"Good-night,  my  son,"  she  replied;  but  as  she  kissed 
him  she  had  fallea  on  bin  neck  weeping,  and  prayod  him 


274  THB  duke's  SEOBIT. 

to  many  one  of  the  beautiful  women  who  surrounded 
him. 

She  had  not  told  him  her  new  trouble,  and  it  was  this  : 
some  kind  friends  had  told  her  Lady  Everleigh  had  been 
beard  to  say  that  few  matches  in  England  would  be  good 
enough  for  her  son,  who  might  almost  be  considered  the 
duke's  heir. 

Should  she  tell  him,  she  wondered,  and  then  a  sicken- 
ing sense  of  the  uselessness  came  over  her — it  would  do 
no  good. 

She  left  him  with  a  grave,  sad  face,  and  once  that 
night,  as  she  lay  awake  thinking  over  the  promise  of  his 
boyhood  and  her  ambitious  dreams  of  him,  it  occurred 
to  her  that  if,  after  all,  there  had  been  anything  in  his 
liking  for  that  girl,  Naomi  Wynter,  it  would  have  been 
almost  better  to  encourage  it.  Bad  as  that  would  have 
been,  so  disappointing  to  her  hopes,  it  might  have  been 
better  than  seeing  Lady  Everleigh's  son  in  his  place. 
She  had  not  thought  once  of  that  httle  episode  after 
the  girl  had  once  been  sent  away;  but  to-night  her 
thoughts  had  turned  to  Naomi.  She  wondered  for  the 
first  time  if  her  son  had  really  loved  the  girl.  It  could 
but  have  been  a  boyish  fancy,  nothing  more,  for  he  had 
never  spoken  of  her  since. 

•     "  It  is  the  one  bitter,  black  misfortune  of  my  life,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  duchess,  "  and  I  must  bear  it." 

Sleep  was  even  further  from  the  duke's  eyes  than  from 
hers.  Never  was  a  man  in  such  a  dilemma.  He  wished 
a  thousand  times  over  that  he  had  never  been  born.  He 
cotdd  see  no  way  out  of  his  difficulties,  they  grew  deeper 
every  day.  If  he  could  have  married  Lady  Valentine  at 
once,  that  wotdd  have  disposed  of  all  his  difficulties  with 
her,  and  with  every  one  else;  but  then  he  could  not 
marry  her,  and  she  knew  why.  Another  thing  was — did 
he  feel  quite  sure  that  he  loved  her  enough  to  marry 
her  ?  No  man  can  love  two  women,  and  he  could  not 
understand  the  influence  that  this  beautiful  American 
had  over  him. 

"  I  can  not  possibly  be  in  love  with  her,"  he  said  to 
himself,  and  yet  he  had  a  vague  idea  that  he  was  so. 

He  saw  himself  surrounded  by  difficulties.  Lady  Val- 
entine was  jealous  and  offended.  She  would  not  be  ami- 
Able  to  Mids  Glynton;  if  he  devoted  himself  to  Lady  Vai- 


TBI  Don's  SECBET.  275 

entine  the  world  would  expect  that  he  was  going  to 
marry  her;  if  he  saw  much  of  Miss  Glynton,  Lady  Yalen- 
tine  would  be  most  bitterly  offended. 

Now  what  was  he  to  do  ?  The  only  way  in  which  he 
could  avoid  the  gordian  knot  was  to  go  abroad  and  leave 
difficulties  at  home,  even  that,  the  only  plan  left,  would 
be  a  great  source  of  grief  and  trouble  to  his  mother. 
There  was  no  comfort  in  the  cigar,  none  in  the  odorous 
night  air,  none  in  the  golden  eyes  watching  him,  none  in 
the  white  moonlight  that  lay  all  round  him.  His  hfe  had 
been  a  failure  through  his  own  fault,  and  he  could  not 
make  the  tangled  thread  straight.  He  has  learned  his 
lesson — the  price  of  it  was  the  misery  of  his  whole  life, 
besides  all  the  pain  that  he  had  brought  to  others. 

He  flung  away  the  remains  of  his  cigar,  and  went  to  his 
ioom. 

The  following  day  the  duchess  mentioned  that  she  would 
like  to  give  a  ball;  some  friends  of  hers  had  just  arrived 
from  Paris,  and  she  was  anziousto  do  them  all  honor.  She 
would  give  a  brilliant  balL 

"  And,"  added  her  grace,  **  it  will  be  the  last.  I  do  not 
remember  to  have  been  in  town  so  late  as  this  for  many 
years.  Bertrand,  if  you  are  not  engaged  this  morning, 
stay  and  discuss  the  invitation  list  with  us.  Lady  Layard 
will  be  able  to  come,  I  hope.  I  have  not  seen  her  as  much 
as  I  should  like  to  have  done.  Then  we  must  have  Mrs, 
Trelawney,  Mrs.  Dulwich,  and  the  Glyntons." 

She  could  not  help  seeing  that  her  son  looked  at  Lady 
Valentine,  whose  eyes  met  hia 

"  I  know  no  one,"  continued  her  grace,  "  who  in  a  short 
time  had  so  completely  made  herself  mistress  of  her  world 
as  Miss  Glynton.  I  should  say  at  this  moment  she  is  de- 
cidedly the  most  popular  woman  in  London." 

But  to  her  surprise  no  one  answered.  Her  son's  face 
was  hidden  in  his  coffee-cup  ;  Lady  Valentine  simply 
bowed. 

"Altogether  we  shall  have  a  brilliant  ball,"  said  the 
duchess.  "  I  am  quite  in  high  spirits  over  it,  and  then, 
when  it  is  over,  we  must  redly  think  about  going.  You 
hear,  Bertrand  ?" 

"  I  hear,  mother.    I  am  at  your  service,"  he  replied. 

He  did*not  think  it  judicious  just  then  to  tell  her  that 
b«  was  in  the  greatest  dilemma  of  his  life;  that  because 


276  THE  duke's  secret. 

two  of  the  fairest  women  in  London  were  interested  in 
Mm,  and  he  could  not  majTy  either,  he  meant  to  wander 
away  to  the  very  ends  of  the  earth. 

"While  the  duchess  and  Lady  Valentine  were  discussing, 
pro  and  con,  who  was  young,  who  was  beautiful,  who 
was  witty,  and  who  danced  well,  the  duke  was  looking 
into  the  long  vista  of  years  which  promised  so  badly  for 
him.  There  was  no  help  for  it — he  must  be  a  wanderer 
on  the  face  of  the  earth.  It  was  his  own  fault,  his  own 
folly;  he  deserved  it.  He  could  not  go  on  living  with 
his  mother,  seeing  Lady  Valentine  every  hour,  and  meet- 
ing Miss  Glynton  daily,  any  longer.  He  saw  himself 
wandering  from  one  far-off  laud  to  another,  living  and 
dying  alone,  with  the  bitter  knowledge  that  Lady  Ever- 
leigh's  son  might  succeed  him — aud  all  this  for  a  few 
weeks'  folly  and  a  few  minutes'  f,owardice.  What  was  the 
use  of  being  a  duke  witii  oue  of  the  largest  rent-rolls  in 
England  ?  The  poorest  peasant  was  happier — the  poor- 
est man  who  either  had  his  wife  by  his  side,  or  knew 
where  to  find  her  gi-ave.     His  mother's  voice  roused  him: 

"  Bertraud,  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  Hke  the  idea  of  a 
grand  ball;  you  are  so  silent." 

"It  wiUbe  a  great  pleasure  to  me;  and  we  owe  some 
hospitaUty  to  the  De  Maris,  who  were  very  kind  to  us  in 
Ppxis.     I'm  all  attention,  mother." 

But  the  shade  did  not  pass  from  his  handsome  face  ; 
the  eyes  were  shadowed,  and  a  quiver  of  pain  was  on  his 
lips.  Lady  Valentine  looked  at  him  attentively ;  he 
opened  the  great  sheet  of  the  "  Times,"  and  while  ap- 
parently studying  it,  she  watched  him.  When  the  duch- 
ess went  to  write  Ijer  letters,  she  went  over  to  him  and 
laid  her  hand  on  the  paper. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,  she  said  ;  "never  mind  the 
"Times"  I  want  to  s-e  your  face  and  your  eyes.  Ah, 
San  Sebastian,  the  old  melancholy  is  back  again — what 
is  it?  Now,  wheaever  I  see  you  sad  I  begin  to  wonder 
if  I  am  in  fault.  What  a  pity  it  is  that  I  am  so  jealous 
and  queer-tem])eretl.     I  am  Httle  comfort  to  you." 

"You  are  the  greatest  comfort  I  have  in  this  world,** 
he  replied.  "  Even  to  look  at  you  is  a  comfort  to  me, 
because  you  know  my  secret,  and  it  seems  to  break  down 
the  horrible,  ghastly  silence  that  surrounds  it  when  X 
look  at  you." 


THE  DUKE'S  SECRET.  27T 

**'Wliat  has  brought  it  back  to  your  mind  this  mom- 
{ng  ?"  she  asked.  "  Do  not  be  unhappy  over  Miss  Glyn- 
ton  ;  I  will  be  as  kind  as  possible  to  her — if  you  wiU  not 
make  me  jealous.  I  wish  I  could  take  all  your  troubles, 
all  your  cares,  aU  your  anxieties,  away  from  you — and 
they  are  heavy  enough." 

"  They  grow  heavier,"  he  said,  with  a  deep  sigh.  "  I 
wonder,  Valentine,  that  I  hear  nothing  from  Michael 
Droski.  It  seems  a  strange  thing  that  he  succeeds  for 
fiver}'  one  else  and  fails  for  me." 

"Perhaps  he  will  not  fail.  You  want  patience  and 
faith ;  you  are  beginning  to  lose  both,"  she  added,  sadly. 

"I  am  sorely  tried,"  he  replied.  "If  no  one  can  suc- 
ceed for  me  I  must  try  and  search  for  myself.  There  are 
many  times  when  I  think  to  myself  that  I  will  start  off  and 
look  through  the  world  until  I  find  her,  or  some  news  of 
her,  some  trace  of  her,  living  or  dead.  But  the  world  is 
wide,  and  when  those  fail  who  have  been  trained  for  such 
work  how  can  I  succeed  ?" 

"You  must  not  tbink  of  it — you  would  not  succeed," 
she  replied.  "It  is  bad  enough  as  it  is,  but  we  can  bear 
it  better  together — much  better.  I  should  be  miserable 
if  you  went  away." 

"My  poor  child — my  dear,  loving  Valentine,  what- 
trouble  I  have  brought  upon  you !" 

Looking  at  him,  she  saw  that  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"I  can  not  bear  that,"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  full  of  pain. 
*'  What  can  I  do  to  help  you  ?  I  must  do  something.  If 
my  jealousy  has  added  to  your  pain,  forgive  me;  I  will 
never  add  to  it  again;  that  is,"  she  added,  with  a  sudden 
smile,  "  if  I  really  can  help  it.  I  will  try.  I  hope  my 
temptations  wiU  be  in  proportion  to  my  strength." 

He  made  no  answer,  and  she  felt  bitterly  conscious  that 
she  could  not  console  and  soothe  him  as  other  women  do 
the  men  they  love. 

"1  shall  be  all  you  wish,  San  Sebastian,"  she  said.  "I 
will  not  add  to  your  troubles." 

"I  wonder,  Valentine,"  he  said,  "if  it  would  be  of  any 
use  for  me  to  write  to  Droski,  or  to  John  Ruskyn  about 
him  ?  I  do  not  even  know  in  what  part  of  the  world  he  is 
at  present." 

"You  know  the  old  proverb,"  said  "^••mIv  V^^entine. 
***No  news  is  good  news.'" 


278  THE  duke's  secret. 

"I  have  long  ceased  to  believe  that,'*  he  replied. 
"Twelve  years  of  '  no  news '  has  taken  away  all  my  faith." 
He  rose  from  the  chair  and  folded  the  paper.  "  I  can  not 
give  my  attention  to  it,"  he  said.  "I  can  not  read;  1 
have  a  miserable,  very  unpleasant  foreboding  of  some- 
thing about  to  happen." 

"You  have  been  brooding  over  your  troubles;  try  and 
forget  them  for  a  time." 

He  left  the  room  with  a  weary  8igh. 

If  he  could  but  forget.  And  before  many  days  had 
passed  he  and  Lady  Valentine  both  remembered  thiP  con- 
versation as  a  strange  coincidence. 

CHAPTER  L. 

A  VISITOB  WITH  MEWS. 

Thx  ball  given  by  the  duchess  to  her  friends  from  Paris 
was  half  over  when  Lady  Layard — the  Lady  Nell  of  olden 
times — arrived.  Everything  had  been  perfect ;  the 
flowers,  the  decorations,  the  music,  the  lights,  and  never, 

Ssrhaps,  had  more  beautiful  women  gathered  together. 
ut  the  queen  was  certainly  Miss  Glynton.  She  had 
never  looked  more  charming,  more  fascinating,  than  on 
this  night  The  duke  felt  himself  mysteriously  attracted 
to  her,  and  yet  he  knew  that  he  must  not  yield  to  the  at- 
traction. He  had  watched  with  great  anxiety  the  meeting 
between  Lady  Valentine  and  Miss  Glynton — the  young 
girl's  face  had  flushed  slightly,  but  on  the  fair  face  of  the 
other  he  read  nothing  but  kindness.  That  puzzled  him  a 
little  ;  he  could  not  see  why  Valentine  should  be  jealous, 
while  Miss  Glynton  evidently  meant  kindly  and  felt  kindly 
toward  her  ;  he  saw  more  than  kindness  in  the  beautiful, 
imperial  face — he  saw  compassion  and  pathos  that  puzzled 
him  still  more.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  must  be  very 
careful ;  he  must  neither  vex  one  nor  the  other.  It  was 
time  that  he  dropped  out  of  this  gay  world,  when  he  no 
longer  felt  at  liberty  in  ii 

The  ball  was,  as  always  happened  with  the  duchess, 
a  great  success.  The  Parisian  guests  arrived  early,  and 
the  duke,  as  in  duty  bound,  danced  what  he  called  his 
duty  dance  with  the  young  daughter  of  the  grand  old 
French  race.  Then  he  was  free,  and  hastened  to  Lady 
Valentine.    When  that  dance  was  over  the  Glyntons  ar- 


THE  DCKE^S  SECRfil?.  279 

rived.  Miss  Glynton  wore  a  magnificent  costume  ol 
white  silk  and  rubies,  that  shone  like  points  of  scarlet 
flame.  She  had  never  looked  more  queenly  or  more 
beautiful ;  she  smiled  brightly  at  the  duke,  and  by  an 
almost  imperceptible  but  wooing  gesture  brought  him  to 
her  side.  While  he  stood  talking  to  her.  Sir  Edward  and 
Lady  Layard  entered  the  room.  She  looked  up  at  him, 
and  a  Httle  exclamation  of  pleasure  escaped  him. 

"  That  is  Lady  Nell,"  he  said.  Surely  the  face  had 
grown  pale,  and  the  queenly  figure  seemed  for  one 
moment  to  shrink  and  falter.  "  I  have  long  been  very 
desirous  that  you  should  know  Lady  Layard,"  he  said. 
"  Will  you  permit  me  to  introduce  her  ?  " 

"Not  just  yet,"  she  replied,  in  a  voice  of  constraint. 
"  Do  not  ask  me  about  any  introductions,  and  do  not  ask 
me  to  dance.  You  see  that  I  am  not  very  conventional 
with  you  ;  take  me  to  that  pretty  conservatory  ;  I  want 
to  talk  to  you  for  a  few  minutes." 

He  was  delighted,  yet  he  sighed  as  he  complied.  If 
Lady  Valentine  saw  them,  she  would  hardly  Hke  it.  How 
could  he  refuse  so  c-ourteous  an  invitation  from  so  fair  a 
lady  ?  He  longed  with  burning  impatince  to  set  himself 
free. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  when  they  stood  once 
more  among  the  fragrant  blossoms,  "  I  am  afraid  that  I 
have  displeased  Lady  Valentine  very  much  indeed.  I 
have  been  thinking  that  I  did  not  do  just  as  I  should  have 
liked  others  to  do  to  me  ;  but  I  was  taken  aback  ;  I  had 
not  much  time  to  think,  and  for  some  minutes  I  never 
dreamed  that  she  had  not  seen  me.  I  was  looking  at  her. 
I  did  not  know  she  had  not  seen  me  until  she  spoke  of  me, 
and  then  I  knew.     Is  she  very  angry  with  me  ?" 

"  No  one  could  be  quite  pleased  with  anything  of  that 
kind,"  said  the  duke,  "  but  I  can  not  for  a  moment  allow 
that  you  were  to  blame.  I  can  not  see  how  you  could 
help  it." 

"  You  really  acquit  me,  then,  of  anything  but  want  of 
mind,"  she  said. 

"  Most  decidedly  I  do,"  he  replied.  "  I  tLink,  to  tell 
the  truth,  that  we  were  all  three  slightly  confused." 

"I  am  glad  you  acquit  me,"  she  said,  gently,  "  I  should 
Bot  like  to  have  had  your  bad  opinion." 

"  lou  could  never  hav©  that,"  said  the  duks,  "  neyw:.'* 


280  THE  duke's  secbet. 

And  again  he  wondered  to  himself  what  was  the  secret 
of  her  weird,  strange  influence  over  him.  No  other  eyes 
looked  so  clear  and  direct  into  his  as  hers  did,  no  other 
face  seemed  to  have  the  power. 

If  he  could  but  understand  himself  and  his  own  heart, 
if  he  could  but  know  which  of  these  two  women  he  loved 
best.     It  seemed  to  him  always  that  Miss  Glynton  took 

Possession  of  him  in  a  queenly,  royal  fashion  all  her  own. 
'et  he  could  not  tell  whether  it  was  so  or  not. 

More  unhappy  than  ever  was  his  Grace  of  Castlemayne 
on  the  evening  when  half  the  beauty  and  fashion  of  Lon- 
don had  gathered  under  his  roof.  The  two  fair  faces 
haunted  him,  and  he  said  to  himself  that  surely  he  was  a 
man  accursed.  He  forgot  that  there  is  no  curse  so  great, 
BO  bitter,  so  withering,  as  that  brought  on  man  by  his  own 
folly. 

More  than  one  present  noticed  the  melancholy  on  the 
handsome  young  face,  and  wondered  what  was  wrong 
with  the  duke.  He  could  not  help  envying  the  men  pres- 
ent; they  had  no  deadly  secrets  weighting  their  hearts 
■with  lead;  they  could  be  happy  as  he  could  never  be 
again.  They  could  give  smiles  and  tender  words  without 
feeling  as  though  they  were  perjuring  themselves.  He 
would  have  given  his  dukedom,  his  vast  revenues,  his 
palatial  homes,  his  wealth  of  pictures,  gold,  silver,  and 
precious  stones — all,  to  be  free  as  the  poorest  of  them. 

"Duke,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she 
stopped  near  him  for  one  minute,  "do  look  happy;  your 
face  is  all  shadow.  I  have  heard  several  people  wonder 
what  is  the  matter  with  you."  She  smiled  as  she  added: 
"  Some  say  that  Miss  Glynton  has  been  cruel  to  you;  and 
Bome  say  that  it  is  I,  Lady  Valentine;  but  I  never  could 
be  cruel,  and  you  know  it.  Try  to  smile  and  look  cheer- 
ful   What  makes  you  look  so  silent  to-night  ?" 

"  I  can  not  tell.  I  have  a  horrible  feeling  of  depression 
on  me,  for  which  I  can  not  account,  though  I  own  it  is  a 
very  bad  night  for  it." 

"Find  some  lively,  bright,  pretty  girl,  with  whom  you 
can  have  a  good  waltz,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 

"I  choose  you  then,"  said  the  duke;  "you  combine  all 
qualities." 

"  But  I  am  engaged  to  Harry  Bellairs  for  the  next  waits 
•tliast" 


THE  duke's  secret.  281 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  be  saw  a  mist  of  tears  in  her  violet 
eyes,  and  he  knew  that  she  felt  more  than  she  said. 

"  Heaven  bless  her,"  he  said,  as  the  handsome  guards- 
man carried  her  off.  "  She  has  the  most  loving  heaii;  in  the 
whole  world.     How  happy  I  could  be  with  her." 

Then  he  paused  abruptly — even  in  his  thoughts — for  a 
pair  of  proud  beautiful  eyes  seemed  to  be  looking  at  him, 
and  the  face  of  a  woman  who  was  a  queen  among  women 
flashed  into  his. 

"  It  is  idle,"  thought  the  duke,  "  even  to  waste  one 
thought  upon  the  matter;  but  if  I  were  free,  I  wonder 
which  of  these  two  I  should  love  best." 

For  in  his  heart  had  come  a  knowledge  that  he  could 
no  longer  conceal  from  himself  that  Miss  Glynton  occu- 
pied quite  as  great  a  share  of  his  thoughts  as  Lady  Valen- 
tine. 

There  was  a  grand  supper  at  midnight;  the  table 
groaned  beneath  the  weight  of  gold  and  silver  plate — a 
king  might  have  envied  it;  fruit  and  wine  of  the  most 
recherche  and  costly  kind;  dainty,  dehcate  dishes  that 
might  have  tempted  a  sybarite.  If  ever  man  seemed 
worthy,  surely  it  was  the  handsome,  wealthy  nobleman 
who  presided  at  that  magnificent  table.  But  he  saw  the 
skeleton  that  lurked  behind  his  chair;  that  half  embraced 
him  with  his  long,  meager  arms;  that  kept  from  him 
every  ray  of  brightness;  tbat  took  the  hannony  from  the 
music,  the  fragrance  from  the  flowers;  that  took  the  light 
from  the  fair  face  of  the  women.  Better  to  be  a  laborer 
in  the  field,  a  breaker  of  stones,  a  hewer  of  wood,  than  a 
duke  with  such  a  skeleton  forever  by  his  side. 

The  Duke  of  Castlemayne  had  just  sat  down  when  a 
servant  came  to  him  and  said  that  a  gentleman  wished  to 
Bee  him. 

"Who  is  it?"  asked  the  duke,  carelessly. 

"  He  has  sent  neither  card  nor  name,"  was  the  reply, 
"but  bade  me  tell  you  that  he  wished  to  see  you  on  very 
important  business." 

"  No  one  can  have  business  at  midnight,"  said  the  duke, 
impatiently.     "  Tell  him  to  come  to-morrow." 

His  Grace  of  Castlemayne  was  not  expected  to  know 
that,  whoever  the  sti'anger  w:is,  he  had  slipped  a  golden 
key  of  admission  into  the  servant's  hand;  and  James,  be- 
ing of  a  gay  disposition,  had  settled  within  himself  that 


282  THE  DUKE  S  SECBET. 

he  would  take  the  pretty  upper  housemaid  to  the  play  to- 
morrow. The  duke  was  so  sweet-tempered,  so  good- 
humored,  that  no  servant  ever  feared  him.  The  man  per- 
sisted. 

"  I  might  mention  to  your  grace,"  he  continued,  "  thai 
the  gentleman  rode  up  in  desperate  haste." 

"  Ask  his  name,"  said  the  diike. 

And  the  servant  was  absent  for  a  few  minutes. 

There  was  a  musical  sound  of  women's  laughter,  a  mur- 
mur of  sweet  voices;  champagne  corks  were  flying,  every 
one  was  good-humored  and  animated.  The  duke  was  very 
busy.  Miss  Glynton  sat  nearly  opposite  him — look  which 
way  he  would,  the  fire  of  her  rubies  seemed  to  catch  his 
eyea    Lady  Valentine  was  on  his  left  hand. 

He  did  not  give  his  thoughts  to  the  strange  gentleman, 
who  had  asked  for  him  on  business  untU  the  servant  re- 
turned and  gave  him  an  envelope.  With  a  slight  apology 
to  his  nearest  neighbors  he  opened  it  and  took  from  it  a 
card.    On  the  card  he  read  the  magic  words: 

"  Michael  Droski — with  news." 

Did  any  one  at  that  sumptuous  table  notice  how,  for  a 
few  minutes,  the  duke's  face  grew  even  ghastly  pale? 

"Michael  Droski,"  the  name  that  had  haunted  him 
lately,  because  he  longed  to  see  the  man.  With  newa 
What  news  ?    Great  heavens,  was  Naomi  found  ? 

The  lights,  the  jewels,  the  flowers,  the  fair  faces  of  the 
women  seemed  for  a  few  minutes  all  one  confused  masa 

"  News  of  Naomi  at  last  after  all  these  years.  Was  she 
living  or  dead  ?  was  she  found  ?  and  was  the  little  son  he 
had  never  seen  with  her  ?  He  could  not  recover  himself; 
the  whole  world  seemed  to  be  whirling  round  him.  It 
seemed  like  an  hour  since  he  saw  the  card,  yet  he  waa 
still  holding  it  in  his  hand,  and  the  servant  stood  waiting 
his  reply.  "Michael  Droski,  with  news!"  He  felt  the 
strongest  inclination  to  shout  out  the  words;  he  had  to 
control  himself  by  the  greatest  possible  effort. 

"  What  answer,  your  grace  ?"  asked  the  man  at  last, 
honestly  believing  that  Ws  master  would  fall  asleep  over 
the  card. 

Then  the  duke  looked  up  with  a  curious,  dazed  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes. 

"  Ask  the  gentleman  to  wait.  I  will  try  to  be  with  hist 
w  )i*lf  an  hovur.    3how  him  into  mj  study." 


THE  duke's  secret.  283 

The  man  bowed  and  went  away,  leaving  the  duke  still 
in  the  greatest  bewilderment. 

He  tried  to  attend  to  his  guests  ;  some  one,  he  never 
knew  who  it  was,  poured  out  a  glass  of  champagne,  and 
he  drank  it  off ;  then  by  some  sudden  impulse,  finding 
that  Lady  Valentine's  eyes  were  fixed  on  Lim,  he  passed 
the  card  down  to  her — the  card  which  bore  those  magical 
•word — "  Michael  Droski,  with  news."  He  watched  her  as 
she  opened  her  eyes  in  a  lingering  glance  of  wonder  and 
amaze — a  glance  intercepted  by  Miss  Glynton. 

Lady  Valentine  returned  the  folded  card  to  him  in 
silence. 

How  that  long  half -hour  passed  the  duke  never  knew, 
every  moment  was  to  him  like  an  eternity;  it  seemed 
that  the  wine-glasses  would  never  be  empty,  the  dishes 
never  finished  ;  but  at  length  he  was  free,  and  as  the 
brilliant  procession  went  from  the  supper-room  to  the 
ball-room,  he  quietly  left  his  guests  and  went  to  the  study 
where  his  visitor  awaited  him. 

CHAPTER  LL 

**r0im   WIFE   IS   FOUND.** 

There,  in  the  duke's  study,  waiting  for  him,  sat  the 
famous  detective,  whose  name  is  now  as  well  known  as  a 
household  word.  A  tall,  keen,  strong-looking  man,  but 
bearing  about  him  this  evening  evident  marks  of  travel; 
he  looked  tired  and  worn,  like  some  one  who  had  been  for 
days  and  nights  without  sleep — but  the  light  in  his  eyes 
was  as  keen  and  as  bright  as  ever.  He  rose  when  the  duke 
entered,  and  bowed. 

"  I  hope  I  have  not  annoyed  your  grace  in  coming  at 
this  hour,"  he  said.  "  I  reached  London  some  hours  since, 
but  I  had  something  still  to  do  before  my  task  was  com- 
pleted." 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,"  said  the  duke,  simply.  "  Neither 
the  day  nor  the  hour  could  matter." 

"  It  is  after  midnight,  and  you  have  a  grand  ball.  I 
could  not  have  chosen  a  more  inopportune  time,  I  fear;  bu> 
I  have  news,"  he  added,  quietly,  "  and  I  know  that  is  more 
to  your  grace  than  sleep  or  dance." 

"  Much  more,"  said  the  duke.  "  You  are  welcome,  as  I 
have  said,  at  any  time.    So  you  have  news  ?"    He  spoke 


284  THE  duee's  segbet. 

quietlj,  but  Michael  Droski  saw  that  the  handsome  face 
was  pale  with  emotion.  "  I  have  waited  many  years  for 
t.  You  have  news  of  my  wife  ;"  then  for  a  few  minutes  it 
seemed  very  probable  to  the  detective  that  the  duke  would 
swoon  like  a  woman.  He  recovered  himself  with  a  great 
gasp.  "  I  have  waited  so  long,"  he  repeated,  "  and  it  has 
come  at  last." 

"Yes,"  said  Michael  Droski,  "  it  has  come  at  last.  I  do 
not  want  to  boast;  but  I  told  your  grace  that  if  it  was 
possible  to  be  done  I  would  do  it.  I  have  brought  you  the 
strangest  news  that  I  could  by  any  possibility  bring.  To 
say  that  truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  is  to  say  little ; 
in  this  case  the  truth  is  so  strange  that  unless  it  were 
amply  corroborated  I  venture  to  say  no  man  would  believe 
it." 

He  seemed  trying  to  give  the  duke  time  to  recover  him- 
self, he  had  drawn  up  the  blind  and  opened  the  window, 
so  as  to  admit  a  current  of  fresh  air;  he  placed  the  duke's 
chair  just  where  he  could  get  the  benefit  of  it,  and  added, 
gently: 

"If  your  grace  will  be  seated,  I  will  tell  you  the  story 
that  seems  to  me,  in  its  way,  more  wonderful  even  than 
the 'Arabian  Nights.'" 

"Tell  me  just  one  thing,"  cried  the  duke,  and  his  voice 
was  hoarse  with  emotion,  his  face  white  with  passion,  "  teU 
me  one  thing,  before  Heaven — is  she — my  wife — Naomi, 
Uving?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  detective,  "  she  is  living  and  well." 

Then  a  great  silence  fell  between  them,  and  for  some 
time  neither  spoke.  The  duke  hid  his  face  in  his  hands, 
caring  httle  whether  his  companion  heard  the  deep  sobs 
that  shook  his  whole  frame  or  not. 

Naomi  was  found  —after  twelve  long,  cruel  years  of 
silence  and  absence,  of  torture  and  Buspense  to  him;  she 
was  found,  living  and  well — sweet  Naomi,  who  had  loved 
him  so  well.  He  could  see  the  fair,  young  face  when  she 
called  out: 

"  I  appeal  to  you,  Lord  St.  Albans,"  and  he  had  been 
deaf  to  her  prayer.  Oh,  Naomi,  the  fair,  lost  love,  the 
sweet  young  wife  of  his  youth.  In  that  moment  all  faint 
shadows  died,  and  he  knew  that  in  his  heart  he  had 
known  no  other  love  than  hers — no  other. 

C^^aomi  livirg  and  weE  In  one  moment  he  went  through 


THE  duke's  secbeil  285 

again  the  whole  of  that  scene  at  Kood  Castle;  he  saw  his 
proud,  haughty  mother  sitting  in  judgement;  he  saw  the 
table,  on  it  the  littie  knot  of  breast  ribbon  and  dainty 
white  handkerchief. 

Ah,  if  he  had  even  that  little  knot  of  ribbon  now!  He 
could  see  the  graceful,  girlish  figure,  the  fair,  downcast 
face — and  he  groaned  aloud  to  think  what  a  coward  he 
had  been. 

She  was  hving.  He  had  resisted  her  appeal,  he  had 
let  her  see  that  his  fear  of  his  mother  was  greater  than 
his  love  for  her.  He  remembered  the  expression  of  her 
face  as  she  quitted  the  room,  and  now-— she  was  hving 
and  well! 

Just  then  the  band  in  the  ball-room  struck  up  a  beau- 
tiful waltz,  the  very  air  seemed  to  pulsate  with  the  sweet 
music;  it  roused  him  and  made  him  remember  that  the 
time  was  passing,  and  he  was  dreaming,  not  doing. 

"I  have  had  a  hard  chase,"  Mr.  Droski  said;  "it  has 
been  by  far  the  most  difficult  task  I  have  had  yet — to  look 
for  one  lady  in  a  world  so  large  as  this  is  a  task,  but  it  has 
ended  happily." 

Then  the  duke  raised  his  white,  haggard  face  to  the 
dark,  keen  countenance  of  the  officer. 

"Tell  me  all  now,"  he  said;  "I  am  prepared.  I  was 
afraid  at  first — just  at  first.  I  have  waited  so  long  ;  now 
tell  me  aU." 

"There  are  gaps  in  my  story,"  he  said;  "vacancies  I 
can  not  fill  up,  but  they  will  be  filled  up  by  the  right  per- 
sons— " 

"Stop  one  moment,"  said  the  dvike,  "only  one;  be  care- 
ful, for  Heaven's  sake,  about  what  you  tell  me  1  Were 
false  hopes  to  rise  in  my  heart  only  to  be  crushed!" 

"I  am  quite  sure  of  my  facts,"  he  replied;  "I  could  have 
returned  some  weeks  ago,  but  I  would  verify  them  aU.  I 
shall  not  tell  you  one  single  circumstance  that  I  can  not 
prove — the  only  thing  to  me  is  that  the  news  I  have  to  tell 
is  so  wonderful  I  do  not  know  how  to  tell  it.  Your  wife, 
your  grace,  is  living  and  well.  The  cuiious  part  of  the 
story  is  this:  your  grace  could  never  guess — even  knowing 
as  you  do  that  your  wife  is  living  and  well — you  could 
never  guess  where  she  is." 

"  No,  that  I  could  not,"  he  repUed  ;  I  can  not  guess. 
I  eau  boliev^  what  you  tell  me,  but  I  can  not  gu«ss.    It^ 


286  THE  duee's  seobkt. 

is  just  as  much  as  I  can  do  to  understand  ;  my  brain  ii 
quite  bewildered." 

"  If  you  were  asked  to  mention  the  most  improbable 
place  on  earth  wherein  to  seek  her,  what  place  would  you 
name?" 

"  I  can  not  tell,"  said  the  duke  ;  I  am  growing  impa- 
tient." 

"  Your  grace  may  believe  me  when  I  tell  you  that  not 
only  is  your  wife  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  wealthy 
ladies  in  London,  but  that  she  is  at  this  very  moment 
here,  under  the  same  roof  with  your  grace." 

The  duke  sprung  from  his  seat,  with  a  low  cry.  His 
white  lips  parted  ;  but  for  some  minutes  no  sound  came 
from  them. 

"  Here  ?  "  he  cried  ;  "  under  my  roof — impossible ! 
You  are  mad,  Droskil  Much  travel  has  driven  you 
mad." 

"  No,  yoiu:  grace  ;  I  am  sane  enough  ;  there  is  no  mis- 
take. I  shall  not  speak  without  proof.  I  tell  you  that 
your  wife,  who  was  once  Naomi  Wynter,  is  now  at  this 
present  moment  under  your  roof." 

"  I  begin  to  understand,"  he  said.  "  You  have  brought 
her.    I  thought  you  meant  that  she  was  here  before," 

"  So  I  do  Your  grace's  wife  is  one  of  the  most  honored* 
even  among  your  noble  circle  of  guests,"  said  Michael 
Droski.  "Is  it  possible  that  your  grace  has  no  idea,  no 
knowledge,  no  foreshadowing  even  of  the  truth  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  the  duke,  briefly,  "  I  have  not." 

"  Do  you  know  that  your  wife  is  among  your  acquaint- 
ance ;  that  her  name  is  one  of  the  most  honored,  I  hear, 
among  your  friends  ?  Do  you  know  that  you  have  met 
her  continually  ;  that  you  have  dined  with  her — danced 
with  her?" 

"  No — no  !"  cried  the  duke  ;  "  it  is  quite  impossible.  I 
do  not  believe  it — ^I  could  not  believe  it ;  it  is  against  all 
reason  and  common  sense." 

"  I  asked  you  once  if  you  should  know  her,  and  you 
told  me  *No.*  Your  grace  spoke  truly  ;  you  have  met 
and  have  not  known  her.  Let  our  thoughts  go  back  to 
the  ball-room  ;  think  over  the  ladies  there,  and  tell  me  if 
in  no  one  you  recognize  your  own  wife  ?" 

"  No,"  he  replied  ;  "  I  should  not,     I  repeat,  Droald, 


*HE  duke's  secbet.  287 

that  you  must  be  mad  to  tell  me  my  lost  wife  is  a  stranger 
under  my  roof.     Does  she  know  me  ?" 

The  detective  could  have  laughed  aloud  at  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  question. 

Of  course  she  would  know  your  grace  by  your  name  ?** 

"  Bat  there  is  no  Miss  Wynter,  no  Lady  St.  Albans 
there,"  he  cried. 

"  She  would  not  be  likely  to  call  herself  by  either  name," 
said  Michael,  with  a  smile. 

"If  you  know  the  name  she  calls  herself,  tell  me,"  he 
cried,  and  suddenly,  as  with  the  swiftness  of  lightning 
the  thought  occurred  to  him  that  one  face  there  had 
brought  his  lost  Naomi  to  mind.  He  laid  his  hand  on 
the  man's  arm,  and  the  breath  came  in  thick,  hot  gasps 
from  his  lips. 

"  Miss  Glynton,  the  supposed  American  heiress  ,is  your 
grace's  wife,  Naomi  Wynter,"  the  detective  said  ;  "and  I 
can  prove  it  as  clearly  as  one  sees  the  sun  at  noon- 
day." 

CHAPTEK   LH. 

MICHAEL  DEOSKl's  KEPORT. 

The  Duke  of  Castlemayne  sat  for  some  time  like  one 
dazed.  In  vain  did  he  try  to  clear  his  thoughts  or 
brighten  his  ideas  ;  he  could  only  look  at  his  informant 
with  eyes  so  full  of  pain  and  wonder  that  the  detective 
himself  was  touched  by  it. 

"1  knew  that  your  grace  would  be  astonished,  he 
said. 

"  And  I  have  seen  her,  spoken  to  her,  spent  hours  with 
her,  and  did  not  recognize  her." 

"No,  you  did  not  recognize  her  ;  but  here  is  just  one 
thing  to  be  said,"  replied  Michael  Droski ;  "  your  grace 
never  could  have  thought  of  her  appearance  as  a  fashion- 
able beauty,  and  a  great  heiress." 

"  No,  never,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  it  is  like  a  parody,  like 
a  satire  on  love,  to  think  that  I  should  not  know  her  now. 
I  can  account  for  all.  Strange  to  say,  I  recognized  in 
Miss  Glynton  a  strange  likeness  to  my  lost  wife  ;  she  is 
much  taller,  and  quite  different  in  figure  from  the  slender, 
simple  girl  I  loved  so  dearly  ;  her  face  is  different — quite 
chaaged ;  but  the  eyes  and  the  beautiful  curves  of  tho 


288  THE  duke's  sECMni 

lips  are  unaltered.  Strange  to  say,  that  in  the  full  face  X 
see  little  likeness,  but  it  struck  me  when  I  saw  her  pro- 
file.    How  blind  I  must  have  been !  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so,"  said  the  officer,  calmly.  "  I  tbink 
your  grace  said  the  young  lady  was  only  seventeen  when 
you  married  her  ?  " 

"  And  that  was  all,  Heaven  help  her,"  said  the  duke, 
"  only  seventeen." 

"  That  was  twelve  years  since  ;  she  would  be  little  mor« 
than  a  child,  then  ;  now  she  is  in  the  full  beauty  of  per- 
fect womanhood,"  said  Michael.  "  I  do  not  think  it 
wonderful  at  all  that  you  did  not  know  her.  It  would 
have  been  far  more  wonderful  if  you  had." 

Again  incredulity  was  fast  rising  in  the  duke's  mind. 

"  There  must  be  some  mistake — it  cannot  possibly  be 
true.  How  can  this  be,  Droski  ?  "  he  asked,  suddenly  ; 
"  my  wife's  father  had  been  dead  for  many  years,  even, 
when  I  married  her,  and  Miss  Glynton  Uves  with  her 
father — she  is  his  heiress." 

"  She  is  his  niece,"  was  the  brusque  reply.  "  He  is  no 
more  her  father  than — than  I  am,"  he  added,  quite  at  a 
loss  for  a  comparison. 

"  His  niece,"  cried  the  diike.  "  Why,  what  could  be  the 
motive  of  that." 

"If  you  ask  me,  your  grace,  I  should  say  that  her 
motive  is  this;  she  never  intended  you  to  know  who  she 
was,  and  surrounded  herself  by  what  she  would  think  a  net- 
work of  diguise.  She  must  have  known  that  you  had  a 
full  knowledge  of  her  father's  death,  and  the  surest  means 
of  disguise  that  she  could  take  would  be  to  make  her 
appearance  in  society  with  a  father;  that  circumstance 
alone  would  have  thrown  you  off  your  guard,  even  had  you 
suspected  her." 

"  That  it  would,"  sighed  the  duke.  "  But,  another  thing, 
Droski,  my  wife's  relations  and  friends  were,  I  believe,  all 
poor,  and  Miss  Glynton  is  reputed  to  be  one  of  the  wealth- 
iest heiresses  in  England — how  can  that  be?  Then,  my 
wife  was  not  an  American,  but  as  sweet  an  Enghsh  girl  as 
ever  the  sun  shone  on." 

"  I  can  explain  it  all  to  your  grace  in  a  few  words,  and 
you  can  verify  the  circumstances  afterward;  if  your  grace 
remembers,  the  last  heard  of  your  wife,  then  Lady  St.  Al- 
bans, was  in  Duncan  Street;  she  left  there  with  her  little 


•tnS  StTES'S  SEGHST.  S8d 

ion,  and  from  that  time  no  trace  could  be  digcorered  of 
them — every  effort  was  in  vain." 

"It  was  so,"  said  the  duke. 

"  Well,  your  grace,  I  take  up  my  thread  from  there.  I 
must  help  my  memory." 

He  drew  from  his  pocket  a  small  note-book,  and  opened 
it, 

"Ihave  every  detail  here,"  he  said.  "The  most  diffi- 
cult part  of  the  task  was  the  beginning;  when  I  had  once 
found  a  trace,  I  knew  that  the  worst  paH  of  my  work  was 
over.  From  Mrs.  Stanley's  in  Duncan  Street,  Lady  St 
,^bans,  taking  her  little  child  with  her,  went  to  Liverpool. 
It  appeared  she  had  said  something  to  Mrs.  Stanley 
abont  going  to  America;  that  gave  me  the  idea  of  Liver- 
pool, and  by  dint  of  some  very  hard  work  and  what  I 
may  call  brilliant  inspiration  of  guesses,  I  found  that  she 
had  gone  to  Liverpool,  and  stayed  at  a  coffee-house,  in- 
tending to  sail  for  New  York  by  the  '  City  of  Prague,'  but 
a  few  days  before  the  '  City  of  Prague '  sailed  her  child 
was  taken  ill.  The  doctor  said  that  a  sea  voyage  would 
be  dangerous  for  it,  and  she  removed  it  from  the  coffee- 
house to  the  outskirts  of  Liverpool.  She  lodged  there 
with  a  Mrs.  Towers,  at  a  poor  but  pretty  little  place  in 
the  country,  called  Mulberry  Cottage,  about  two  miles 
from  Liverpool.  She  lived  there  two  years  with  her  little 
Bon. 

"Two  years,"  cried  the  duke;  "and  no  one  could  find 
her.  I  spent  thousands  in  those  two  years,  and  I  would 
have  spent  thousands  more.  She  so  near,  yet  no  one  could 
find  her." 

"  3be  was  out  of  the  world,  as  it  were,"  said  the  officer. 
"  One  generally  looks  for  the  lost  people  in  large  towns. 
I  talked  some  time  with  this  Mrs.  Towers,  who  toid  me  she 
had  always  had  an  idea  that  her  lodger  belonged  to  a  bet- 
ter class.  Lady  St.  Albans  was  very  poor  ;  she  contrived 
to  keep  herself  and  her  child  by  sewing,  but  it  was  a 
struggle.  The  child  was  a  boy,  noble  and  handsome  as  a 
prince  ;  he  could  just  talk,  and  the  woman  seems  to  have 
been  passionately  fond  of  him.  All  that  I  could  make  out 
from  her  was  this  :  that  one  day  her  lodger  went  to  Liver- 
pool to  see  some  lady  about  some  work,  and  that  she 
Drought  this  work  home  wrapped  in  a  newspaper  ;  that, 
later  in  the  evening,  the  landlady  heard  a  great  cry  iron 


fdO  THS  duke's  seoxbt. 

her  room  ;  she  hastened  there,  thinking  that  something 
terrible  had  happened,  and  found  her  standing  up,  white 
and  trembling,  reading  a  newspaper,  her  eyes  quite  wild. 

"  •  Is  anything  the  matter  ?'  she  cried. 

"And  Lady  St.  Albans  said  : 

"  *  No.  Only  something  I  read  here  in  this  paper,  start- 
led ma.     Nothing  is  wrong.* 

"True  to  the  habit  and  instinct  of  her  class,  the  land- 
lady looked  for  that  paper,  but  it  was  not  to  be  found — 
evidently  her  young  lodger  had  destroyed  it.  All  that 
the  woman  could  tell  me  besides  that  was  that  exactly  one 
week  after  that  her  lodger  left;  she  could  not  give  me 
the  faintest  idea  where  she  had  gone,  and  there  seemed 
again  no  possibility  of  tracing  her.  The  landlady  her- 
self said  that  a  cab  came  for  the  little  luggage  there  was, 
but  she  herself  was  not  at  home  when  her  little  lodger 
left.  The  servant-girl  that  had  helped  the  cabman  had 
left  her  long  ago,  had  married,  and  died  soon  after.  That 
seemed  to  me  an  end  of  all  hope,  until  a  sudden  thought 
occurred  to  me. 

"She  had  seen  something  in  the  paper  which  had 
startled  her;  in  all  probabiUty  the  secret  of  where  she 
had  gone  and  what  had  affected  her  lay  there.  If  I  could 
but  see  the  same  paper.  Yet,  out  of  all  the  thousands  of 
papers  pubUshed  in  England,  wbich  might  it  be  ?  It 
might  be  even  a  foreign  paper.  The  only  sure  informa- 
tion I  had  about  it  was  that  the  paper  had  come  from  the 
house  of  some  lady  living  in  Liverpool — who,  what,  or 
where,  no  creatute  could  possibly  tell.  That  was  a  check, 
your  grace,  even  on  the  wildest  imagination.  I  went  to 
Liverpool  again,  knowing  the  year,  and  I  contrived  to 
get  all  the  files  of  the  principal  papers  pubhshed  during 
that  year.  I  need  not  tell  your  grace  all  the  time  that 
it  took  and  trouble  that  it  gave  me.  After  weeks  of  re- 
search— for  I  read  every  paper  though — I  found  this  ad- 
vertisement: 

^  **  *  If  Helen  Glynton,  late  of  Henholm,  in  Surrey,  be  still 
living,  and  will  apply  to  Hardress  B.  Glynton,  Fifth 
Avenue,  New  York,  she  will  hear  of  something  to  her 
%dvantage.' 

''It  did  not  seem  in  any  way  to  concern  Lady  Si 


THE  DtTEE'S  SECBET.  M, 

Albans,  that  paragraph,  yet  it  was  the  only  one  that 
seemed  in  any  way  to  refer  to  any  mystery,  or  any  ro- 
mance. I  took  a  sudden  resolution  ;  I  went  back  to 
London,  and  searched  the  register  of  the  child's  birth  to 
find  the  mother's  maiden  name.  I  found  it — thanks  to 
the  correctness  of  the  modern  law— I  found  it,  and  it  was 
Wynter  not  Glynton,  as  I  had  hoped.  Still  I  could  not 
help  thinking  there  might  be  a  chance  ;  very  often  whai 
seems  a  blind  chance  of  that  kind  is  better  worth  iollow- 
ing  than  a  more  cert;ain  clew.  I  resolved  to  go  to 
America  ;  it  seemed  to  be  the  last  and  only  chance  ;  it 
was  indeed,  a  slender  one. 

I  went  to  New  York,  and  was  not  long  in  finding  out 
that  the  name  of  Hardress  B.  Glynton  was  as  well  known 
there  as  that  of  Rothschild  is  in  London.  I  found  the 
house  on  Fifth  Avenue  was  a  palace,  and  that  the  rich 
merchant  had  an  only  daughter  some  said,  others  said  a 
niece  ;  but  let  it  be  which  it  woiild,  the  young  lady  had 
come  from  Europe  some  eight  or  nine  years  since,  and 
was  considered  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  New  York. 
There  was  many  rumors  about  her.  Some  said  that  she 
was  his  niece,  and  that  he  had  sent  to  England  for  her  to 
adopt  her ;  others  that  she  was  the  great  merchant's 
daughter,  and  she  had  been  sent  to  Europe  to  be  educa,ted. 
Though  I  was  on  the  spot  it  was  months  before  I  could 
learn  anything  certain  about  her. 

"  I  should  not  like  to  tell  your  grace  all  the  secrets  of 
the  profession — we  have  to  learn  cunning ;  we  have,  as  it 
were,  to  study  to  deceive.  From  outsiders  I  could  learn 
nothing,  but  after  a  time  I  managed  to  get  into  the  house 
disgnised- 

"  You  will  not  like  to  hear  it,  but  I  had  to  do  it  1 
found  my  way  at  last  into  the  lady's  suite  of  rooms,  and 
there  was  ample  evidence.  Her  maiden  name  had  been 
Wynter,  and  the  name  of  her  mother,  Helen  Glynton.  I 
foimd  several  books  from  Helen  Glynton  to  John  Wynter, 
and  then  it  was  all  clear  to  me. 

"Helen  Gljuton,  the  sister  of  the  milhonaire,  had 
married  John  Wynter,  and  Naomi  was  their  only  child. 
Evidently  she  had  seen  the  advertisement  that  I  had  read, 
and  had  crossed  the  Atlantic  at  once  in  search  of  her 
uncle.  True,  she  was  known  here  as  Miss  Glynton.  Sh« 
void  no  wedding  riiig.    She  had  left  England  with  • 


292  THE  DT7KE*S  SECBIT. 

little  child  in  her  charge,  and  there  was  no  mention  her* 
of  the  child;  neither  Mr.  Glynton  nor  any  one  else  seemed 
to  have  the  faintest  notion  that  she  had  ever  been  mar- 
ried. 

"  They  had  been  to  Spain,  to  Home,  to  Italy,  and  now 
had  resolved  on  coming  to  England.  I  was  sure,  but 
wanted  to  be  more  sure.  I  remained  in  New  York  some 
time  after  they  had  left  and  there  made  myself  quite  sure 
of  many  things. 

"  Hardress  B.  Glynton,  the  millionaire,  had  never  been 
married;  he  had  never  been  what  was  called  a  lady's 
man.  He  had  devoted  himself  to  the  business  of  making 
money,  and  he  had  made  it.  I  found  after  much  research 
and  trouble  that  his  niece  had  been  with  him  over  eight 
years,  and  that  she  came  over  in  one  of  the  steamers  of 
the  Inman  Line,  'The  City  of  Berlin.'  I  came  back  to 
London  and  searched  the  list  of  passengers  who  had 
sailed  that  year  in  the  'City  of  BerHn;'  among  them  was 
Naomi  Glynton,  as  the  poor  young  lady,  perhaps  to 
please  her  uncle,  had  called  herself. 

"  That  made  me  feel  quite  certain  ;  every  doubt  and 
difficulty  vanished — although  I  could  not  discover,  and 
have  not  discovered  what  became  of  the  child.  I  returned 
to  London  some  days  since,  but  I  would  not  call  to  see 
you  until  I  had  the  whole  details  at  my  finger's  end.  I 
soon  found  the  status  that  Miss  Glynton  holds  in  society, 
and  that  she  is  here  to- night,  one  of  her  grace'a  most 
honored  guests.'* 

CHAPTER   LUL 

"I    CAN    MABBT    NO    OTHEB    WOMAN.** 

Ths  Duke  of  Castlemayne  sat  for  some  time  in  perfect 
silence. 

"It  must  be  true,  Droski,"  he  said,  at  length,  "but 
what  am  I  to  understand  by  it?  If  Miss  Glynton  be 
really  my  lost  wife,  although  I  did  not  recognize  her,  she 
must  have  known  me.  She,  of  course,  would  not  know 
my  name.  What  am  I  to  think?  She  has  never  given 
me  the  faintest  sign  of  recognition.  She  evidently  never 
intended  to  know  me  ?  " 

He  thought  of  the  hour  on  the  river,  and  all  he  had  said 
to  her.  and  his  face  flushed  hotly  as  he  remembered  iL 


THE  DUKE*S  SECRET.  293 

"I  think,"  said  Michael  Droski,  "I  may  speak  mj 
mind  frankly  ;  it  is  decidedly  a  bad  lookout  for  your 
grace.  It  looks  as  though  she  had  not  wished  you  to 
know  her." 

"Yet,"  said  the  duke,  "if  that  has  been  the  case,  she 
would  surely  not  have  returned  to  England — she  would 
purely  not  have  ventured  into  the  same  society,  where  w« 
must  meet  every  day." 

"  She  was,  perhaps,  quite  sure  in  her  disguise,"  said  the 
detective. 

The  duke  paced  the  room  with  quick,  uncertain  steps. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  do,"  he  said;  "  but  one  thing  is 
quite  sure,  whether  my  wife  forgives  me  or  not — whether 
she  quarrels  with  me  or  not,  I  owe  all  my  life  to  you.  I 
am  grateful  to  you,  and  I  wiU  prove  my  gratitude;  you 
shall  be  a  rich  man ;  you  have  worked  hard  for  me,  and 
you  shall  be  generously  repaid — jou.  shall  not  need  to 
work  any  more.  You  have  chased  from  my  life  its  darkest 
perplexities;  whatever  new  troubles  may  be  in  store  for  me, 
the  old  ones  are  ended;  now  I  know  my  true  position — 
my  wife  is  Uving  and  well — I  know  that  I  can  marry  no 
other  woman.  I  know  the  struggle  now  that  lies  before 
me.  I  can  meet  it;  but  to  you  I  owe  a  debt  of  gratitude 
which  must  be  eternal." 

Tears  of  emotion  dimmed  his  eyes,  and  he  held  out  his 
hand  to  the  man  who  had  worked  so  hard  in  his  cause. 

"I thank  you,"  he  said,  simply.  "Money  can  never 
repay  what  you  have  done — I  thank  you." 

And  Michael  Droski,  looking  in  the  handsome,  face, 
said: 

"  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life,  your  grace — 
the  very  proudest.  I  think,"  he  continued,  "that  I  will 
leave  your  grace  now;  my  work  is  ended,  the  rest  all  lies 
in  your  hands;  whether  you  claim  the  lady,  whether  you 
speak  to  her  at  once,  or  whatever  you  do,  I  am  quite  at 
your  service  should  my  evidence  be  needed.  Your  grace 
knows  my  address  at  Finchley — a  line  there  at  any  time 
will  bring  me  here.  I  think  it  will  be  as  well,  perhaps, 
to  wait  for  a  few  days  now  before  I  see  your  grace  again." 

A  few  minutes  afterward  he  was  gone,  leaving  the  Duke 
of  Castlemayne  standing  puzzled,  bewildered,  and  most 
uncertain  what  to  do. 

One  thing  he  did  do,  and  no  one  will  think  any  the 


294  THE  duke's  secret. 

worse  of  him.  He  knelt  down,  his  face  buried  in  hii 
hands,  and  thanked  Heaven  with  his  whole  heart. 

Whatever  else  might  betide,  she  was  found.  The  in- 
tolerable suspense  of  not  knowing  whether  she  was  living 
or  dead  was  no  longer  his — the  uncertain  future  need  no 
longer  be  dreaded.  She  must  do  one  of  two  things — 
either  forgive  him  and  come  back  to  him,  or  there  must 
be  a  separation.  Let  it  be  which  way  it  would  the  horror 
was  ended,  was  over;  and  it  seemed  to  him  that  then  only 
did  he  realize  the  intolerable  suspense  and  anguish  of 
these  years.  He  felfc  like  a  tired  man  to  whom  come  sud- 
denly a  sweet  sensation  of  rest.  He  could  have  lain  down 
there  and  then  and  slept  soundly. 

The  weight  was  off  his  shoulders,  he  could  sleep  in 
peace  ;  he  sat  down  for  a  few  minutes  to  collect  his 
thoughts.  So  that  was  Naomi,  that  proud,  beautiful 
woman,  whose  every  gesture  was  full  of  imperial  pride 
and  grace — that  was  his  fair  young  wife,  Naomi,  who  had 
loved  him  so  well  ;  how  changed,  not  only  in  figure,  but 
in  heart  and  mind  ;  how  proudly  and  coldly  they  looked 
at  him  now,  those  sweet  eyes !  how  proudly  the  sweet 
lips  curved  when  they  smiled!  It  was  all  his  own  fault, 
it  was  he  who  had  changed  her,  he  who  had  turned  that 
sweet,  loving  nature  into  bitterness. 

"  Naomi  is  found !  "  he  said  the  words  over  and  over 
again  to  himself,  so  as  to  fix  them  on  his  brain;  the  sweet, 
loving  young  wife  he  had  lost  so  long  ago,  she  whom  he 
had  treated  with  such  cruel  cowardice. 

She  was  his  wife  legally,  lawfully  his,  and  he  had  loved 
her  with  all  the  fierce,  wild,  sweet  passion  of  first  love, 
but  he  did  not  know  how  to  meet  her,  he  was  at  a  loss 
what  he  should  do.  He  could  not  go  up  to  her,  take  her 
hand,  and  say  to  her:  "  Naomi,  I  have  found  you  at  last." 
She  would  wither  him  with  the  scorn  of  her  beautiful 
face  and  the  flash  of  her  beautiful  eyes  ;  he  must  wait 
and  think  what  to  do;  there  was  no  hurry  for  a  few  hours, 
or  even  for  a  few  days,  and  he  must  think  long  and 
seriously  about  it ;  so  much  would  depend  on  the  first 
step  he  took. 

Then  a  fierce  longing  seized  him  to  look  upon  her.  She 
was  under  his  roof,  this  imperially  beautiful  woman  who 
had  half  London  at  her  feet.  She  was  near  him — in  two 
minutes  he  could  look  upon  her  face,  listen  to  her  voice, 


THE  duke's  secbet.  296 

touch  her  hand.     How  could  he  help  falling  ou  his  knees 
before  her  and  crying  out: 

"Oh,  Naomi,  my  wife!" 

He  must  go  back  and  look  at  her — he  must  see  what 
were  the  changes  in  that  beautiful  face,  and  why  he  could 
not  recognize  her.  He  would  not  think  of  the  Lady  Val- 
entine; he  said  to  himself  that  he  should  go  mad  if  he 
stopped  there  any  longer.  He  was  going  to  see  Naomi; 
he  had  thought  of  the  night  when  he  waited  for  her  in 
his  study  at  Rood  Castle,  the  summer  wind  stirring  the 
ivy  on  the  grand  old  walls,  and  the  moonlight  falling  like 
silver  beams,  and  now,  after  twelve  years  of  absence,  he 
was  going  to  look  at  her  again. 

He  walked  slowly  back  to  the  ball-room,  his  face  and 
lips  quite  white,  his  eyes  troubled,  and  just  as  he  crossed 
the  broad  corridor  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  swept  in 
her  rich  satin  and  jewels  across  the  lower  end  of  the  halL 

"Bertrani,"  she  cried,  "  my  dear  boy,  how  very  ill  you 
look,  and  where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?  Let  me 
ring  for  some  wine;  come  in  here  for  a  few  minutes. 

She  turned  aside  to  the  morning-room,  and  he  followed 
her. 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  laid  her  fan  on  the  table, 
and  turned  with  anxious  eyes  to  him. 

"My  dearest  boy,"  she  said,  "you  are  not  well  I  you 
must  have  some  wine." 

He  flung  himself  into  the  nearest  chair. 

"  You  are  right,  mother,  I  am  not  weU,  and  I  will  have 
some  wine." 

i     She  rang  for  it,  and  he  drank  it  quickly;  it  revived  him, 
and  he  said: 

"I  knew  that  I  wanted  something,  and  that  must  haT« 
been  it.     Thank  you,  mother,  you  are  always  kind." 

It  was  true;  she  was  proud,  haughty,  imperious  by  na- 
ture; but  there  was  one  thing  quite  certain,  she  loved  her 
son  with  a  passionate  love.  She  had  been  imperious  and 
almost  intolerably  despotic  over  him,  but  she  worshipped 
him  as  the  greatest  treasure  she  had  on  earth.  She  never 
failed  in  kindness  to  him.  He  drew  her  beautiful  proud 
face  down  to  the  level  of  his  own ;  he  had  laid  his  head  on 
her  breast,  longing  with  all  his  heart  to  tell  her  his  story, 
but  the  old  fear  and  the  old  shamo  were  too  strong  upoB 
tum— he  could  not. 


296  THE  duke's  seceet. 

"  Where  have  you  been,  Bertrand  ?"  she  asked,  at  lasi 
"I  have  missed  you  so  long. ' 

"  I  had  to  see  some  one  on  business,"  he  replied. 

"  Business,  my  dear,  at  midnight,  and  when  you  were 
so  busily  engaged,  too.  It  must  have  been  of  strange  im- 
portance." 

"  It  was,  mother;  the  person  I  saw  had  been  abroad, 
and  had  only  just  returned  to  England;  I  was  obliged  to 
see  him.  I  did  not  know  I  had  been  so  long  away.  We 
will  go  back  to  the  ball-room.  What  a  success  your  ball 
has  been,  mother." 

To  his  great  relief  the  duchess  said  she  would  follow 
jhim  in  a  few  minutes.  He  wanted  to  be  alone  when  he 
saw  Naomi,  for  the  first  time  knowing  who  she  was.  The 
duchess  laid  her  white  jeweled  hand  on  his  head. 

"I  am  not  satisfied,  Bertrand,"  she  said;  "you  look  ill; 
your  face  and  hps  are  quite  white,  and  your  head  burns. 
Ah,  my  dear,  be  careful  of  yourself — ^you  are  all  I  have  in 
the  world." 

"  I  am  all  right,  mother,"  he  said,  "  there  is  nothing 
the  matter  with  me." 

"I  have  sworn  to  myself,"  said  the  duchess,  '* never  to 
•ay  one  more  word  on  the  subject,  but  it  is  so  terrible  to 
me  that  it  is  almost  a  nightmare.  Bertrand,  ask  yourself 
what  I,  your  mother,  should  do,  if  anything  happened  to 
you,  and  the  son  of  the  woman  I  hate  became  Lord  of 
Castlemayne  before  I  die  ?  Have  you  ever  contemplated 
such  a  thing  ?    I  have." 

His  face  quivered  with  emotion  as  he  kissed  her 
again. 

"  Have  no  fear,  mother,  I  am  not  ill,  I  never  was  better, 
and — trust  to  me — I  shall  have  good  news  for  you  soon 
— trust  me." 

And  she  watched  him  back  to  the  ball-room,  his  head 
erect  and  his  eyes  fiUed  with  a  bright,  happy  light. 

CHAPTER   UV. 

"the    name    I     LOVE     BEST." 

He  must  be  alone  when  he  saw  her,  lest  happy  cries  or 
loving  words  should  fall,  against  his  will,  from  his  lips. 
He  could  not  bear  that  any  creature  should  be  «  witness 
of  his  emotion — that  any  should  bn  near  bim. 


THE  DTJKE*&  SECBEl?.  397 

The  music  of  one  of  Strauss's  waltees  sounded  clearly 
and  distinctly  as  he  reached  the  ball-room  ;  he  heard  the 
measured  rhythm  of  light  feet,  the  rustle  of  rich  silk, 
the  shght  murmur  of  silvery  voices,  and  laughter.  He 
did  not  see  her  at  first ;  he  stood  leaning  against  the  pedes- 
tal of  the  beautiful  statue  of  Hebe — Hebe,  in  white  marble, 
with  clustering  crimson  roses  at  her  feet.  He  leaned 
with  his  elbow  on  the  top  of  the  pedestal,  watching 
the  fair  women  who  passed  and  repassed  ;  but  he  did  not 
see  her  for  whom  his  soul  looked  out  of  his  ej'es.  At  last 
the  number  of  dancers  grew  less,  and  then  he  saw  her. 

She  was  talking  to  the  Prince  De  Ligne,  a  fair-haired, 
handsome  Frenchman,  whose  eyes  were  bent  in  earnest 
admiration  on  her  face.  The  light  in  the  rubies  seemed 
to  gleam  and  glitter  like  sharp  points  of  crimson  flame; 
the  rich  white  silk  fell  in  graceful  folds  round  her 
queenly  figure.  She  had  the  proud,  graceful  bearing  of 
an  empress,  and  the  prince  looked  like  one  of  her  sub- 
jects. 

And  this  was  Naomi,  his  fair,  young  wife;  this  regal, 
imperial  lady,  with  the  rubies  in  her  hair — Naomi,  the 
sweet,  tender,  gentle  girl,  who  had  loved  him  so  dearly. 

It  was  most  incredible.  There  was  not  the  faintest 
resemblance  in  figure. 

Naomi  had  been  very  slender  and  girlish — this  lady 
was  in  full  perfection  of  a  glorious  womanhood,  much 
taller  than  when  he  had  lost  her.  The  golden-browu 
hair  had  a  deeper  sheen;  the  features  seemed  to  have 
changed,  and  to  have  gro^vn  more  perfect  and  regular. 
And,  then,  as  he  looked  at  her  more  and  more  earnestly, 
the  face  of  his  girl  love  was  there  again;  there  could  be 
no  other  such  eyes,  no  other  such  curves  on  the  beautiful 
lips.  The  longer  he  looked  at  her,  the  more  he  wondered 
that  he  had  not  from  the  first  recognized  her.  Yet  how 
could  he  have  dreamed  that  this  beautiful  Naomi  was 
one  of  the  wealthiest  heiresses  in  England.  The  girl 
who  had  been  sent  in  shame  and  disgrace  from  the 
stately  walls  of  Rood  Castle  was  sought  after  now  by 
peers  and  princes.  How  could  he  ever  have  dreamed  of 
such  a  change  ? 

He  would  never  have  been  surprised  to  find  her  among 
the  poor  and  lowly  ;  he  had  never  in  his  dreams  fancied 
her  in  any  other  class. 


298  THE  duke's  secret. 

She  was  looking  with  a  smile  at  the  prince — a  beauti- 
ful smile,  that  seemed  to  begin  in  her  eyes  and  end  on 
her  lips.  He  remembered  the  smile  ;  but  it  had  been 
more  sweet  and  more  shy  when  she  was  his  Naomi. 

He  recognized  her  at  last ;  he  felt  now  that  even  had 
he  never  heard  Michael  Droski's  story,  it  must,  in  time, 
have  dawned  upon  him  who  she  was — he  must  have 
guessed  it  in  time.  All  the  longing  of  his  heart  and  soul 
seemed  to  go  out  through  his  eyes ;  he  felt  that  he  could 
never  address  her  again  as  a  stranger,  yet  she  evidently 
did  not  intend  to  be  anything  but  a  stranger  to  him. 

One  or  two  passing  by  him  spoke  jestingly  to  him  ;  the 
dancing  was  at  an  end  for  a  few  minutes,  and  the  dancers 
went  off  for  refreshments.  Naomi  was  coming  in  his 
direction,  the  Prince  de  Ligne  walking  by  her  side — 
coming  nearer  to  him.  His  wife,  whose  name  he  dare 
not  utter,  passed  so  near  to  him  that  the  rich  silk  touched 
him,  and  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  she  carried  reached 
him. 

He  longed,  with  unutterable  longing,  to  cry  out — 
•*  Naomi,  my  darling,  come  to  me."  But  the  beautiful 
eyes  looked  at  him  with  the  cold,  proud,  clear  glance  of 
a  stranger. 

His  breath  came  in  thick,  hot  gasps; his  heart  beat  loud 
and  fast.  Such  pain  came  into  his  eyes  that  she,  glancing 
carelessly  at  him  as  she  passed,  involuntarily  hesitated  for 
half  a  moment,  then  went  on,  with  a  murmured  word  of 
kindness  on  her  lips.  Could  it  be  Naomi — oh,  Heaven — • 
with  a  stranger's  smile  for  him  ? 

On  the  impulse  of  the  moment  he  followed  her.  No 
matter  if  twenty  princes  were  by  her  side — no  matter,  she 
must  speak  to  him,  and  he  must  see  if  there  was  any  trace 
of  Naomi  in  the  queenly  woman's  ways.  He  followed 
them  down  the  long  ball-room,  where  Naomi  took  a  seat, 
where  tier  after  tier  of  fragi-ant  blossoms  sent  out  rich 
perfume.  The  prince  stood  for  a  few  minutes  by  her  side, 
and  no  one  liked  to  interrupt  thetefe  a-tete;  then  the  prince 
had  to  leave  her  in  search  of  his  partner,  and  the  duke 
immediately  took  his  place.  She  turned  her  head  with 
careless,  queenly  grace. 

"You  are  not  dancing  much  to-night,  duke,"  said   she. 

*' Ah,  no,  it  can  not  be  Naomi?"  his  whole  soul  cried 
out  in  passionate  anguish.    Naomi  could  uttv«r  speak  U9 


TEE  duee's  secbet.  999 

to  him.  He  had  been  her  heart's  idol,  and  she  spoke  now 
Hghtly,  coolly,  carelessly,  as  though  she  was  the  stranger 
he  had  believed  her  to  be." 

"  I  do  not  feel  quite  in  humor  for  it,"  he  replied.  "Why 
could  he  not  break  the  trammels  of  silence,  why  not  cry 
out  to  her  then  and  there,  "  You  are  my  wife,  Naomi;"  ho 
could  not. 

"  You  are  not  looking  quite  so  weU  to-day,"  she  said, 
and  she  drew  aside  the  rich  white  silk,  that  he  might 
take  a  seat  by  her  side. 

He  wondered  if  she  could  hear  his  heart  beating — if 
she  could  guess  at  his  torture  of  agitation  and  pain — but, 
surely  not,  for  her  smile  was  calm  and  bright.  He  looked 
into  her  face — into  her  eyes;  there  was  not  the  faintest 
shadow  of  betrayal  there. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  "  every  one  should  be  in  the 
humor  for  dancing  if  they  come  to  a  bah,  but  I  like  watch- 
ing others  dance,  quite  as  much  as  dancing  myself.  This 
has  been  a  splendid  ball.  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever 
seen  so  many  beautiful  women,  or  such  exquisite  toilets." 

"  We  are  happy  and  foi-tunate  in  pleasing  you,"  he  said, 
*'  You  see  so  many  brilliant  entertainments." 

"  I  see  a  great  deal,"  she  replied,  quietly. 

"How  Lady  Valentine  enjoys  dancing,"  he  said,  hoping 
to  see  some  change  in  her  face  at  the  mention  of  that 
name,  but  she  smiled  lightly  as  she  answered: 

"  Yes,  she  enjoys  it  thoroughh',  and  she  dances  ex- 
quisitely. I  consider  her  the  most  graceful  dancer  in  the 
room." 

Could  it  be  Naomi?  Ah,  no!  impossible.  He  had 
been  mad  or  dreaming,  or  Droski  was  mad.  What  bad 
this  fair,  cold,  proud  queen  to  do  with  Naomi?  He 
thought  of  something  which  would  be  a  test — of  some 
question  he  could  ask  which  would  either  confuse  or  sur- 
prise her. 

"  Valentine  is  a  strange  name  for  a  girl,  is  it  not  ?  "  he 
said,  suddenly.  "  The  St.  Valentine  of  old  was  a  man.  I 
wonder  the  name  is  given  indiscriminately  now  to  boys 
and  girls.  I  think  there  is  a  great  character  in  names," 
he  continued,  nervously.  "  No  other  names  would  suit 
Lord  Arden's  daughter  one-half  so  well — the  frank,  light 
tenderness  and  simple  candor  that  distinguish  her,  are  all 
k^d  ia  her  name.    I  wonder — it  is  a  piece  of  downright 


300  THE  duwe's  secret. 

rudeness,  I  know — but  Jl  have  so  often  vrondered  whal 
your  Christian  name  is.  I  am  sure  that  it  is  an  uncommon 
one." 

"Why  should  you  think  so?"  she  cried,  laughingly, 
but  of  embarrassment  or  confusion  there  was  not  the 
faintest  trace  of  it  in  her  eyes  or  face — not  the  most 
trifling. 

"I  do  not  answer,"  because  you  yourself  are  of  an 
uncommon  type,"  he  said.  "  You  must  know  that  I  have 
often  thought  and  wondered  what  your  name  was — 
whether  you  had  been  named  after  a  flower,  a  queen,  a 
goddess,  or  what." 

She  laughed  aloud  the  sweet,  musical  laugh  he  loved 
so  much. 

"Nothing  so  poetical,"  she  replied.  My  name  is  what 
people  call  a  Bible  name — can  you  guess  it  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  quite  calmly,  quietly,  with  frank, 
wide  open  eyes — so  frank  that  his  heart  chilled  again. 
This  could  not  be  his  sweet,  sensitive  Naomi. 

"  If  you  wiU  guess,"  she  said,  "  I  will  tell  you — when 
you  are  right." 

His  heart  almost  stopped  beating  when  he  looked  at  her, 

"  I  am  very  much  afraid,"  he  said,  "  that  I  do  not  know 
as  many  Bible  names  as  I  ought.  Some  of  them  are  very 
fine.    I  can  not  think  of  one  that  suits  you." 

"  Try,"  she  said,  with  a  very  encouraging  smile. 

"Hester,  or  Esther,  Judith,  Euth?" 

He  lingered  on  the  word  Ruth — it  was  very  ne«r  to 
Naomi,  he  thought.     She  shook  her  head  with  a  emiJe. 

"  Not  yet,"  she  said,  "  not  yet." 

"I  am  at  a  loss;  it  is  not  Vashti,  I  am  sure — is  ii 
Miriam  ?" 

"You  have  guessed  accurately,"  she  said.  "It  is 
Miriam."  And  indeed  her  name  was  Naomi  Miriam 
Wynter ;  in  all  probability  he  had  never  heard  of  the  second 
name;  she  had  never  used  it  until  now. 

"  Miriam  is  one  of  the  finest  names  in  the  language," 
she  continued;  "  I  think  I  prefer  it  to  any  other.  But  you 
look  disappointed,  duke," 

He  was  perplexed.  She  looked  so  frank,  so  fair,  so  can- 
did, Was  she  playing  with  him,  teasing  him,  or  telling 
him  the  truth  ?   Dare  ha  venture  to  say  something  more  ? 


THE  duke's  SEORBT.  801 

If  she  was  really  Naomi  it  could  not  hurt  her;  if  she  were 
not  she  would  not  understand  it. 

"The  name  I  love  best  in  the  whole  wide  world,"  he 
■aid,  "  is  Noami." 

And  for  half  a  moment  there  was  profound  silence;  it 
lasted  but  for  half  a  moment,  yet  he  could  hear  the  beating 
of  his  own  heart. 

She  repeated  the  word  after  him,  quite  calmly. 

"  Naomi,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  it  is  a  pretty  name;  but,  I 
venture  to  think,  slightly  old-fashioned." 

"I  love  it,"  he  said,  "and  with  reason." 

"  Reason  rules  us  all,"  she  quoted,  laughingly. 

He  looked  at  her  earnestly,  lingeringly;  but  there  was 
not  the  faintest  sign  in  her  face ;  she  might  have  been  the 
most  perfect  stranger  to  him. 

"  You  seem  to  understand  the  philosophy  of  names," 
she  said. 

"  I  do  not  understand  the  philosophy  of  life,"  he  added; 
"  if  I  did  I  should  be  a  happier  man." 

"Philosophy  and  gray  hairs  come  together,"  she  an- 
swered, laughing;  and  the  next  moment  a  little  group  of 
dancers  had  formed  a  circle  round  her. 

CHAPTER  LV. 

"  I   WOULD   SOONEB   BB  DEAD." 

The  brilliant  ball  was  ended,  and  the  duke  saw  Mr. 
Glynton  escorting  Lady  Belle  Chalmers  to  her  carriage. 
He  turned  to  look  where  that  gentleman's  beautiful  heiress 
was,  and  found  her  surrounded  by  gentlemen;  one  held 
her  bouquet,  another  her  fan;  each  seemed  anxious  to  take 
her  to  the  carriage  door,  but  the  duke  took  possession  of 
her. 

"I  have  been  searching  for  you,  Miss  Glynton,"  he 
said.     "  Permit  me." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm  without  one  word,  and 
the  little  court  of  admirers  fell  back;  there  was  something 
in  the  duke's  face  that  made  an  impression  on  them. 
With  his  own  hands  he  drew  the  mass  of  crimson  and 
gold  round  her  beautiful  shoulders,  speaking  no  word, 
but  looking  at  her  with  his  whole  heart  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  shall  see  that  you  are  safely  placed  in  the  carriage,* 
he  said;  "Mr. Glynton  is  engaged." 


801  THE  duke's  SECMT. 

He  would  go  with  her,  and  he  did,  to  the  astoniahineiiit 
of  his  own  servants.  He  stood  bareheaded  by  the  carriage 
door,  anxious  that  she  was  well  wrapped.  Lady  Bell 
was  with  them;  Mr.  Glynton  had  offered  to  set  her  down. 

"The  night  air  is  sweet  enough,"  said  Naomi;  "  it  will 
not  hurt  me.*' 

*'  It  is  like  many  other  things,  both  sweet  and  danger- 
ous," said  the  duke,  and  a  smile  rippled  over  his  beauti- 
ful face. 

"  You  speak  in  epigrams  to-night,"  she  said,  carelessly. 

She  did  what  was  very  unusual  for  her;  she  held  out 
her  pretty  gloved  hand  to  bid  him  good-night. 

The  duke  held  it  perhaps  for  one  moment  longer  than 
etiquette  required.  She  did  Kot  hear  the  passionate 
murmur  that  fell  from  his  lips.  He  longed  with  his 
whole  heart  to  ciy  out  to  her  there  and  then:  "Tell  me, 
for  Heaven's  sake  are  you  my  wife,  Naomi?" 

He  feared  that  if  she  vanished  from  his  sight  before  he 
had  wrung  the  truth  from  her  he  should  never  know  it. 
He  felt  inclined  to  clasp  her  in  his  arms  and  keep  her  at 
any  cost. 

He  felt  that  she  withdrew  her  hands  in  some  little  won- 
der while  she  said  "  Gond-nigbt." 

He  must  let  her  go  with  his  hungry  desire  for  the  truth 
unsatisfied.  He  could  not  detain  her;  even  now  Mr. 
Glynton  was  looking  at  him  in  some  httle  wonder. 

"  Good-night,"  he  said  slowly,  and  the  next  moment 
no  beautiful  face  was  between  him  and  the  stars  in 
heaven.  He  returned  to  the  house  with  a  wild  sense  of 
his  own  inability  to  cope  with  the  situation. 

The  ball-room  was  rapidly  thinning;  his  beautiful 
mother,  quite  indefatigable,  was  still  doing  the  honors; 
but  Lady  Valentine  was  not  dancing,  and  he  went  up  to 
her  at  once.  It  seemed  like  an  inspiraiion  from  heaven 
that  he  should  go  to  her  in  his  difficulties  and  take  coun- 
sel from  her.  "What  would  she  think  of  the  news  he  had 
to  tell? 

He  went  up  to  her,  and  his  heart  smote  him  when  he 
saw  how  her  whole  face  brightened  when  she  saw  him. 

"  Valentine,"  he  said,  gently,  "  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I 
must  see  you  alone,  and  to-night.  Ihave  something  very 
particular  oo  say  to  you.  How  long  will  it  b«  Mfor« 
these  people  go,  do  you  think?" 


T  THE  duke's  secret.  303 

She  looked  round  the  ball-room  with  quick  eyea,  noting 
the  number  of  dancers. 

"  An  hour  longer,  I  should  think,"  she  replied. 

"  Where  can  I  see  you,  Valentine  ?  It  will  hardly  do 
for  us  to  leave  the  room  together,  but  will  you  go  to  th« 
picture-gallery,  and  I  will  follow  you  in  a  few  minutes." 

It  was  no  unusual  thing  to  seek  the  picture-gallery  for 
cooler  air;  it  was  brilliantly  lighted,  and  there  was  a  re- 
freshing sweep  of  the  summer  wind  from  one  of  the  long, 
open  windows.  Lady  Valentine  looked  round  on  the 
pretty  picturesque  gallery;  it  was  not  a  large  one,  and  the 
family  portraits  were  not  there;  but  it  contained  a  few 
fine  works  by  the  old  masters,  and  some  by  modern  artists; 
the  deep  bay-windows  were  shrouded  by  rich  hangings, 
there  was  a  rich  crimson  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  a  few 
fine  statues.  Lady  Valentine  sat  down,  wondering  what 
had  caused  the  duke's  agitation,  and  what  he  wisUed  to 
see  her  for,  and  the  next  moment  he  was  by  her  side. 
With  her  frank  impulse  she  took  the  hand  that  he  had 
laid  on  her  shoulder,  and  elapsed  it  in  her  own. 

"  I  can  see  that  you  are  in  trouble,"  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  How  white  and  ill  you  look;  how  I  wish  all  your 
suspense  and  misery  was  ended. " 

"  It  is  ended,  Valentine :  at  least  the  suspense  of  it," 
he  repUed,  gravely;  but  the  sudden  paling  of  her  lips  re- 
minded him  that  she  had  a  vital  interest  in  what  he  had 
to  say;  to  her  it  would  make  all  the  difference  in  the 
world  whether  his  wife  were  living  or  dead  ;  he  must  be 
cautious,  and  break  the  astounding  inteUigence  gently  to 
her;  he  felt  the  hand  that  touched  his  own  grow  deadly 
cold,  and  he  remembered,  with  bitter  pain  that  she  loved 
him  with  her  whole  heart,  and  he  had  to  tell  her  that  his 
wife  was  Hving. 

"  You  have  had  news.  I  know  you  have  seen  Droski 
Oh,  duke,  what  does  he  say  ?  Is  she — is  she — living — 
found?" 

The  pale,  quivering  lips  could  hardly  articulate  the 
words,  and  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne  felt  as  though  he 
were  about  to  plunge  a  sword  in  that  loving  heart. 

"  I  have  the  strangest  news  for  you,  Valentine,"  he 
said.  "  It  is  so  wonderful  that  even  I,  whom  it  concerns 
most,  can  hardly  beheve  it,  yet  I  know  it  to  be  true.  It 
relieres  me  of  one  kind  of  suspense,  but  it  deepens  my 


304  THE  DUKE*S  SEflRiilT. 

suspense  in  another  way.  I  was  wretched  before,  but  it 
seems  to  me  my  Avretchedness  is  redoubled.  I  feel  as 
though  I  could  not  tell  you,  Valentine — as  though  I  can 
hardly  hope  that  \ou  will  believe  one  word  that  I  say. 
Valentine,  my  wile  —  is  living  and  found." 

She  was  quite  silent;  the  pallor  of  her  face,  and  the 
chill  of  her  hands  alarmed  him;  he  did  not  like  to  break 
that  silence  even  by  a  sigh. 

The  moments  were  like  hours  to  him  with  that  silent, 
drooping  figure  by  his  side;  at  last,  and  by  a  supreme  ef- 
fort of  strength  and  will,  she  raised  her  face  to  his. 

"  I  am  so  glad,  if  it  be  to  your  happiness,"  she  said,  gen- 
tly. "I  am  glad  she  is  living.  I  am  glad  she  it  found.  I 
am  glad  of  anything  that  m^es  you  happy — " 

"  Thank  you.  I  knew  you  would  be  kind,  Valentine, 
and  I  have  come  to  you  in  my  trouble,  for  it  is  great;  she 
is  living — she  is  here  in  London." 

Looking  at  her,  he  saw  in  spite  of  her  efforts,  her  face 
quivering  with  pain. 

"In  London,"  she  cried,  faintly;  '*  so  near  to  us.  How 
strange.    Did  he  bring  her  with  him  ?" 

"No,  she  came  first,"  he  repUed,  and  in  that  moment  the 
great  and  powerful  Duke  of  Castlemayne  would  have  given 
something  to  have  found  himself  a  thousand  miles  away. 

"  Came  first  and  did  not  come  straight  to  you.  That 
ueems  strange,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  have  news  stranger  still;  I  do  not  think  she  will 
ever  come  to  me  again.  I  will  tell  you  all  that  has 
passed,  and  you  will  decide  for  yourself  what  you  think." 
Still  he  could  not  find  the  courage  to  say  to  her  in 
so  many  words:  "  Miss  Glynton  is  my  wife."  It  seemed 
to  him  that  he  had  not  reahzed  the  fiill  force  of  the  news 
until  he  had  to  communicate  it  to  another.  "  Valentine, 
will  you  believe  that  I  have  seen  my  wife  without  recog- 
nizing her,  that  I  have  met  her  time  after  time,  have 
talked  to  her,  and  yet  I  had  not  the  faintest  notion  of 
her  identity,  not  the  faintest  ?" 

She  looked  at  him  with  unutterable  surprise. 

"  Is  that  possible  ?    I  should  not  have  thought  it  so." 

"  It  is  more  than  possible,  it  is  true,  and  you  have  done 
this  same  thing.  You  have  spent  many  hours  with  her, 
and  have  talked  much  with  her." 

"  To  your  wife,"  she  said,  shudderingly. 


THE  duke's  secbet.  805 

**  Tes,  to  my  wife.  She  has  been  here  to-night,  Valen- 
tine.    She  was  at  the  ball." 

"  Your  wife,"  she  repeated  again,  "  here  to-night." 

"  Yes;  one  of  my  mother's  most  honored  guests — one 
of  the  fairest  and  proudest  women  present,"  he  went  on. 

"  You  know  by  sight  and  by  name  every  lady  who  was 
here  this  evening;  is  there  one  whom,  imder  any  guise, 
you  could  imagine  to  be  my  wife  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,"  quickly,  "  not  one.  Besides  which 
we  know  them  all,  their  families  and  histories;  there  was 
no  stranger  present." 

"  She  is  no  stranger  to  us,"  he  replied.  "  Oh,  Valen- 
tine, can  you  not  guess  ?" 

"Indeed  I  can  not,"  she  said,  "thinking  over  every 
lady  present  to-night  I  can  not  imagine  one  whom  there 
is  the  least  probability  that  you  should  recognize  as  your 
wife." 

"Yes,  she  was  here;  the  queen,  they  said,  of  the  ball." 

"  There  is  only  one  person  whom  I  should  hate  it  to 
be,"  she  cried,  "  only  one — from  all  London,  from  all  the 
world.     I  would  rather  it  were  any  one  than  this  one" 

Her  face  grew  whiter  than  death,  her  lips  trembled. 

"  Say,  oh,  surely  it  is  not  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
whom  I  dislike;  Heaven  itself  could  not  be  so  cruel  as 
that." 

"  Who  is  it  you  dislike  so  much  ?"  he  asked,  knowing, 
yet  dreading  the  answer. 

"It  is  Miss  Glynton,"  she  replied;  "she  is  the  only 
woman  who  has  ever  made  me  feel  jealous  or  unhappy. 
Ah,  duke,  do  not  say — do  not  tell  me  that  it  is  Miss  Glyn- 
ton, the  only  one  creature  living  whom  I  dislike." 

She  clung  to  him  with  almost  hysterical  passion,  her  fair 
white  arms  and  hands  tossed  in  wild  passion. 

"I  will  not  have  it,"  she  cried;  you  shall  not  say  her 
name;  any  other  I  welcome  and  love  for  your  sake,  but 
not  that  one.  She  has  hurt  me  so;  she  hurt  me  when  she 
took  you  away  from  me.  I  would  sooner  be  dead  than 
that  she — the  proud,  cold,  beautiful  woman — should  come 
back  as  your  wife — I  would  sooner  be  dead. 

Her  head  dropped,  she  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  old  oaken 
chair,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

He  had  never  seen  a  woman  weep  as  she  wept  then, 
•nd  he  stood  by  helpless,  not  knowing  what  to  say,  longing 


806  TEE  duke's  seobet. 

with  all  his  heart  to  console  her,  yet  with  a  strong  senstt 
that  he  must  use  no  more  loving  words  to  her. 

He  had  suffered  much  since  the  days  of  his  folly,  he  had 
seen  others  suffer,  too;  but  his  heart  had  never  been  so 
riven  with  anguish  as  when  he  stood  by  Lady  Valentine's 
eide,  and  could  find  no  word  to  comfort  her. 

CHAPTEB  LVL 

**HEE  OHABAOTEB  HAS  CERTAINLY  CHANOED." 

"  Valentine,"  said  the  duke,  gently,  *'  every  tear  of  yours 
is  a  stab  to  me.  What  can  I  say  or  do  to  comfort  you  ? 
I  wish  I  had  died  rather  than  have  brought  this  trouble 
on  you.    How  can  I  comfort  you  ?" 

The  despair  in  his  voice  touched  her  more  than  his 
words;  she  tried  to  still  the  terrible  sobs  that  choked  her; 
she  tried  to  stop  the  rain  of  tears.  Nothing  could  have 
touched  her  so  keenly  as  to  know  that  she  was  giving  him 
pain. 

"  How  can  I  comfort  you  ?"  he  cried.  "  Oh,  miserable 
that  I  am — I,  who  would  have  saved  you  from  all  trouble. 
Valentine,  my  dear,  youi*  tears  are  killing  me." 

Then  she  rose  from  her  knees,  and  he  drew  her  near  to 
him.  The  girlish,  slender  figure  trembled  with  emotion, 
the  fair  young  face  was  drowned  in  tears. 

"I  am  sorry," she  said.  "Do  not  let  my  tears  hurt  you 
— they  have  done  me  good.  Is  it  true,  duke,  and  sure, 
without  mistake  ?" 

"  I  believe  so.  There  seems  no  reason  to  doubt  Droski; 
he  has  complete  evidence,  complete  proof.  But,  Valentine, 
it  seems  more  like  a  fairy  tale  or  a  romance  than  anything 
else.  Naomi  was  so  pure,  so  sweet  and  simple,  so  friend- 
less; Vliss  Glynton  is  so  rich,  so  honored.  I  should  never 
have  dreamed  of  looking  for  my  lost  wife  in  the  ranks  of 
the  proudest  and  most  exclusive  of  women.  I  have  sor- 
rowed often  over  a  picture  of  Naomi  working  hard  for  her 
daily  bread,  but  I  never  thought  of  her  in  affluence  and 
magnificence." 

"  No,  nor  did  I,"  said  Lady  Valentine.  "  Of  course,  if 
she  is  your  lost  wife,  that  changes  everything.  What 
seemed  to  be  bold  and  forward  before  I  knew  this,  now 
appears  to  be  quite  natural;  she  had  a  right  to  your  timt 


THE  duke's  secret.  307 

and  attention.    You  did  not  in  the  least  recognize  her, 

did  you?" 

"No,  not  at  all;  it  was  the  last  idea  that  could  have 
entered  my  head." 

"But  why  did  she  not  make  herself  known  to  you? 
Why  has  sbe  kept  up  this  mystery  and  disguise?  I  do 
not  understand  it." 

"  Nor  do  I,  and  that  is  the  reason  why  I  felt  that  I  must 
consult  you  at  once  and  know  what  you  think.  I  am 
quite  puzzled  over  it.  If  she  never  intended  to  come  back 
to  me  why  did  she  come  to  London  ?  I  can  not  absolutely 
say  that  she  sought  us,  but  she  could  have  avoided  usy 
even  more  easily  than  she  had  visited  us;  no  one  forced 
her  to  know  us;  my  mother  was  introduced  to  her,  but 
she  could  have  declined  that  introduction;  she  need  not 
have  followed  it  up;  she  need  not  have  known  me  or 
you,  but  she  seemed  to  do  both;  she  never  showed  the 
slightest  avoidance  of  us." 

"No,  she  did  not,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  musingly. 
"  That  is  quite  true." 

"  I  can  not  understand  her  motives  at  all,"  said  the  duke. 
"  If  she  did  not  wish  or  intend  to  know  me,  or  even  to 
return  to  me,  why  has  she  purposely  sought  our  acquaint- 
ance ?  If  she  ever  intends  to  know  me  why  has  she  no* 
made  herself  known  to  me  ?" 

"It  is  strange,"  said  Lady  Valentine;  "perhaps  she 
has  been  waiting  to  see  if  you  love  her  enough  to  penetrate 
the  disguise." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  wishes  me  to  find  her  out,"  said  the 
duke,  quickly;  "indeed,  if  it  were  not  that  I  am  sure 
Droski  is  right  and  would  never  tell  such  a  story  without 
ground  for  it — but  for  my  firm  faith  in  him,  I  should  say 
it  was  a  dream. 

"After  he  had  told  me,  Valentine,"  said  the  duke.  "I 
went  to  look  at  her.  Tou  can  understand  the  feeling  that 
drove  me.  I  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  her,  then 
gradually  I  saw  the  likeness,  and  the  face  of  my  young 
wife  seemed  to  grow  before  my  eyes.  I  could  have 
cursed  my  stupidity  that  I  had  not  seen  it  before,  the 
gesture  of  her  hands,  the  play  of  her  features,  the  curves 
of  her  lips.  I  wondered  how  it  could  have  escaped  me. 
She  came  sailing  down  the  room  with  the  Prince  de  Ligne; 
her  dress  touched  me  as  sha  passed;  she  looked  at  mt 


W  THl  DUOl's  SSOBST. 

with  careless  eyes,  a  careless  smile,  and  I —  Oh,  Valen- 
tine, the  truth  was  in  mj  eyes,  and  she  must  hare  read  it 
there." 

"Soon  afterward  I  saw  her  alone,  and  I  resolved  to 
tell  her;  her  calm  and  serene  indifference  piqued  me — 
angered  me.  I  resolved  to  tell  her.  I  went  up  to  her 
and  took  a  seat  by  her  side;  we  began  to  talk;  I  purposely 
led  the  conversation  to  the  subject  of  names,  and  asked 
hers. 

"  I  looked  at  her  as  I  did  so  straight  in  the  face.  Hers 
never  changed;  her  eyes  did  not  fall;  there  was  not  even 
the  faintest  ripple  over  the  calm  of  her  features.  She 
told  me  her  name  was  a  Bible  name — could  I  guess  it  ?  I 
said  *  Ruth '  among  others,  very  softly  and  distinctly — it 
is  so  allied  to  Naomi  that  one  seldom  hears  one  without 
thinking  of  the  other.  She  laughed  even  gayly,  and 
when  I  said  *  Miriam,'  she  answered,  *  Yes,  my  name  is 
Miriam.'  That  is  a  plain  proof  to  me  that  she  never  in- 
tends me  to  recognize  her." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  it  is  just  possible 
that  she  might  have  a  middle  name  without  your  knowing 
it" 

"I  never  heard  of  it;  my  mother  spoke  of  her  as 
Naomi  Wynter;  but  whether  it  be  so  or  not,  the  fact  that 
she  conceals  her  name — Naomi — shows  me  quite  plainly 
she  did  not  intend  for  me  to  know  her." 

"  It  looks  like  it  said  Lady  Valentine.  *'  The  position  i» 
just  a  few  degrees  more  awkward  than  it  was  before;  of 
course,  she — Naomi,  I  had  better  call  her — does  know 
how  diligently  you  have  sought  her  all  these  years." 

"No,  she  can  not  possibly  know  that,"  he  replied. 

"  Nor  does  she  know  that  this  detective  has  followed  so 
closely  on  her  track,  and  has  made  himself  master  of  her 
position  and  of  her  story." 

"  No — certainly—  she  knows  nothing  of  that,"  said  the 
duke;  still  I  can  not  see  what  difference  her  knowledge 
of  that  would  make." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  she  had  some  plan 
of  her  own;  she  may  have  said  to  herself  that  she  would 
wait  so  long  a  time  and  watch  you." 

The  duke  shook  his  head  gravely. 

*%She  is  not  one  of  that  kind/'  he  wdd,  "aht  loved  mt 


TEE  duke's  SE0BET.  809 

too  dearly,  Valentine;  but  now  I  know  that  she  must  hate 
and  despise  me." 

"Do  you  think  that  she  has  come  back  in  all  the 
bravery  of  her  splendor  to  show  you  what  you  have 
lest?" 

"  I  can  not  tell;  but  no,  I  think  not;  I  can  not  fancy 
that  she  could  ever  be  guilty  of  an  unworthy  action,  or 
that  she  could  ever  act  from  an  imworthy  motive;  she 
was  so  sweet,  so  simple,  and  free  from  all  worldliness;  no, 
I  can  not  think  that,  Valentine." 

"  Her  character  has  certainly  changed  since  then.  I  do 
not  find  one  fault  with  her,  or  criticise  her,  but  we  must 
both  own  that  she  is  a  woman  of  the  world." 

"  Yes,  I  should  say  she  is,"  replied  the  duke. 

*'  Then  if  she's  changed  in  one  respect,  why  not  in  others; 
perhaps,  though  it  seems  hard  to  say,  perhaps  she  doea 
not  love  you  now." 

"It  may  be  so;  I  cannot  tell,"  said  the  duke;  "but, 
Valentine,  what  do  you  advise  me  to  do  ?  Shall  I  speak 
to  her  and  tell  her  that  I  recognize  her,  and  »«k  her  to 
come  back  to  me,  or  shall  I  go  in  this  uncertainty,  which 
is  enough  to  drive  any  man  mad;  what  would  you 
advise?" 

"  I  am  at  a  loss,"  she  replied.  "  I  tell  you  frankly  that  it 
seems  to  me  even  a  more  diflGlcult  position  than  what  it 
was  before.  You  must  feel  very  grateful  to  Droski,"  she 
added,  with  unconscious  satire. 

"  I  am  gratefid;  I  do  not  think  there  is  another  man  in 
all  the  world  who  would  have  solved  the  mystery  for  me." 

"You  will  reward  him  handsomely?"  she  said. 

"  That  I  shall,  most  handsomely;  it  sets  the  great  ques- 
tion of  my  life  at  rest.  I  have  found  her  now,  the  only 
thing  I  have  to  know  is  this,  will  she  forgive  me,  or  will 
she  refuse  ?" 

"  No  one  can  tell;  but  it  seems  to  me  as  though  she 
would  refuse,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  and  there  was  surely 
no  despair  in  her  face;  "  then  what  shall  you  do  ?" 

"  I  must  be  guided  by  circumstances,"  he  replied.  "  I 
do  not  see  my  way  clear  at  all." 

Then  Lady  Valentine  looked  up  to  him  with  tender 
eyes. 

"  You  have  not  told  me  one  word  about  your  liftle  son,* 
■he  said. 


SIO  THE  DUKS'S  SSClfflfT. 

"  Nor  do  I  know  ore  word  to  tell  you,  Valentine,  "  n«i 
on«." 

Droski  could  make  nothing  out  about  the  boy.  She 
certainly  took  him  with  her  from  England.  She  must  have 
found  a  home  for  him  somewhere  in  America.  He  never 
went  to  her  uncle's  house,  for  her  uncle  never  knew  that 
she  had  been  married.  That  is  another  reason  why  I 
should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  my  child.  I 
should  like  to  see  him;  my  heart  aches  when  I  think  of 
him.  I  was  a  miserable  coward.  I  did  wrong,  but  I  have 
been  awfully  punished.  Do  you  know,  Valentine,  there 
are  times  when  I  think  my  punishment  greater  than  my 
crime." 

"  She  would  not  think  so.  Tour  denial  of  her  would 
seem  so  cruel  and  hard  to  bear.  There  is  something  on 
her  side,  you  know." 

"I  admit  it,"  said  the  duke;  "  conscience  makes  cowards 
of  us  all.  I  tell  you  honestly,  Valentine,  there  is  something 
about  her  that  awes  me.  I  feel  a  reluctance  to  go  to  her 
and  ask  her  the  straightforward  question  as  to  whether  sha 
is  my  wife." 

"  It  will  come  to  that,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 

And  then  he  told  her  the  whole  story  just  as  Droski 
had  told  it  to  him.  She  listened  in  wonder;  her  first 
thoughts  seemed  to  be  marvelous;  her  second,  wondei 
at  the  good  fortune  of  the  girl. 

"I  have  read  of  such  things  of  men  who  have  made 
marvelous  fortunes,  and  of  relations  who  have  been  found 
and  adopted,  but  I  never  expected  in  real  life  to  meet 
such." 

"  It  is  a  romance,"  said  the  duke;  "but,  oh,  Valentine, 
I  wish  she  had  come  back  to  me  poor  and  more  like  she 
was  when  she  left  me.  I  shall  never  find  my  simple, 
sweet  Naomi  again  in  this  superb  lady.  What  shall  I 
do?" 

"I  should  do  nothing  just  yet,"  she  replied.  "The  news 
has  been  a  shock  to  you — a  great  shock;  get  over  that, 
and  take  a  few  days  to  think  it  well  over." 

And  the  duke  thought  that  was  the  best  advice  he  e9ul4 
tike  on  the  subje«i 


THE  duke's  SEOBST.  311 


CHAPTEK  LVn. 

**  THAT   MT   WrFE IT   CAN   NOT    BE  1" 

Mkthael  Droski  was  made  a  rich  man.  The  sum  that 
went  from  the  duke's  banker  to  his  was  something  almost 
fabulous;  but  he  had  worked  hard  for  it  and  deserved  it. 
The  duke  spent  a  long  time  in  looking  over  the  papers 
and  documents  and  copies  of  papers  that  he  had 
brought  with  him.  Nothing  could  be  more  clear;  and  he 
saw  at  once  that  there  was  not  the  faintest  lingering 
chance  of  any  mistake.  It  seemed  clear  as  the  noonday 
flun  in  the  heavens  that  Miss  Glynton  was  really  and  truly 
his  lost  wife,  Naomi  Wynter. 

While  there  had  been  even  ever  so  faint  a  doubt,  ever 
•o  faint  a  chance  that  there  had  been  a  mistake,  the  duke 
had  felt  almost  a  reprieve;  but  now  it  was  clear  to  him 
as  though  she  herself  had  told  him  who  she  was.  How 
was  he  to  approach  her,  this  stately  imperial  lady,  at  whose 
feet  this  great  world  was  sighing,  he  did  not  know.  Did 
she  care  for  him  ?  Mighty  duke  as  he  was,  would  she  con- 
•ider  it  in  no  way  honor  to  share  his  name  and  his  title  ? 

He  asked  himself  one  question;  and  even  in  his  own 
heart  he  could  hardly  answer  it.  It  was  this — Which  of 
the  two  did  he  love  best — Lady  Valentine,  or  the  grandly 
beautiful  woman  whom  he  had  made  his  wife  ?  All  the 
fire,  poetry  and  passion  of  his  youth  seemed  to  awake  and 
to  be  renewed  within  him  when  he  thought  of  her.  Yet 
the  tender  compassion  and  loving  affection  he  had  for 
Lady  Valentine  seemed  to  him  as  great. 

The  time  was  rapidly  coming  now  when  he  must  take 
Bome  steps  in  the  matter.  It  was  evident  to  him  that 
Naomi  did  not  intend  to  make  herself  known  to  him;  that 
she  would  probably  leave  London  without  in  the  least  be- 
traying her  identity.  The  London  season  was  almost  over, 
and  he  had  heard  of  several  places  where  she  had  promised 
to  visit.  If  she  went  away  now  he  did  not  see  in  what 
fashion  he  could  meet  her  again.  He  must  take  some 
steps. 

It  astonished  him  to  find  himself  so  overawed  by  her. 
Why  could  he  not  go  up  to  her  and  say,  "  Naomi,  my 
wife,  I  know  you !  "  Between  him  and  her  stood  the 
reooUeotion  of  hig  cruel  cowardice,  the  long,  chilling 


812  THE  DUES'S  BEGBET. 

separation  of  twelve  years,  a  distance  further  and  -mdet 
than  that  of  the  grave.  And  during  the  days  that  his 
doubts  and  fears  assailed  him  most  strongly,  the  duke 
was  one  of  the  most  unhappy  men  in  England. 

He  saw  her  next  at  an  afternoon  concert  given  by  the 
Duchess  of  Westeven  for  the  benefit  of  some  charity  which 
engrossed  fashionable  attention.  The  duchess  had  gener- 
ously thrown  open  her  magnificent  rooms,  and  the  con- 
cert was  given  at  Westeven  House. 

It  was  most  fashionably  and  numerously  attended; 
the  beauties  gathered  in  full  force,  and  les  elegantes 
also — Lady  Valentine  Arden  and  Miss  Glynton,  Lady 
Layard;  there  was  also  a  cluster  of  Belgravian  matrons, 
with  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  at  their  head.  The 
duke  escorted  the  ladies  of  his  household;  and  from 
where  she  sat,  to  her  great  interest,  Lady  Valentine  saw 
that  she  was  paler  than  usual;  that  the  grand  beauty  was 
softened,  and  even  increased,  by  the  veil  of  tenderness 
and  thought.  Her  toilet  was  simple  and  elegant.  A 
dress  of  cream-colored  silk  trimmed  with  gold  and  orna- 
ments of  gold.  She  wore  a  eucharist  lily  in  her  hair  and 
one  in  the  bodice  of  her  dress.  But  this  time  no  resent- 
ment rose  bitter  in  Lady  Valentine's  gentle  breast.  If 
this  were  really  his  wife — let  her  do  anything  in  the  world 
— she  would  try  to  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between 
them. 

Afterward  Lady  Valentine  could  never  speak  of  the  con» 
cert  for  the  simple  reason  that  she  never  heard  one  note 
of  the  music;  she  was  wholly  engaged  in  watching  her 
rival,  who  was  quite  unconscious  of  her  gaze. 

She  watched  the  different  expressions  of  that  beautiful 
face ;  how  a  tender  phrase  of  music  softened  it,  how  a 
martial  phrase  brightened  it,  how  a  sorrowful  phrase 
shadowed  it. 

"  That  woman  has  lived  under  a  disguise,"  said  Valen* 
tine  to  herself;  "  she  has  tried  to  seem  careless,  proud  and 
cold,  while  she  is  none  of  the  three." 

Once  Lady  Valentine  saw  her  look  at  the  duke,  and 
after  that  one  glance  she  never  again  doubted  for  one  mo- 
ment that  Miss  Glynton  was  the  duke's  wife. 

She  was  looking  at  him,  as  she  believed,  quite  unper- 
ceived;  and  for  once  her  heiirt  shone  in  her  eyes.  Lady 
Yalentine  leaned  back  faint  and  pale  in  her  chair;  there 


THE  duke's  secret.  315 

was  no  mistaking  such  a  glance  as  that.  Then  the  duke 
leaned  over  the  back  of  the  chair  and  whispered  to  her. 

"  Valentine,  I  have  been  watching  her,  and  I  have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  she  has  been  trying  to  disguise  her 
nature  as  well  as  her  name.  I  wonder  now  if  she  wiU 
pass  on  with  one  of  those  imperial  bows  that  always 
make  me  feel  as  though  she  were  some  empress,  and  I  her 
slave." 

He  waited,  and  what  he  had  foreseen  happened.  She 
passed  him  by,  and  made  no  attempt  to  stop  to  speak  him; 
passed  him  with  a  cold,  careless  bow,  just  as  a  stranger 
would  liave  done, 

"No,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  I  will  not  bear  that;  nothing 
could  make  me;  she  shall  speak  to  me." 

He  followed  her  and  overtook  her  as  she  was  going  down 
the  grand  staircase  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  millionaire. 
She  looked  up  Avith  the  calmest,  coolest  wonder  as  he  ap- 
peared, flurried  and  almost  breathless  by  her  side. 

"  Miss  Glynton,"  he  said,  "you  are  leaving  without  one 
word  to  me." 

*'  I  did  not  know  that  your  grace  wanted  a  word,"  she 
replied,  laughingly. 

"  Certainly  I  do.  Did  you  like  the  music  ?  Have  you 
enjoyed  the  concert  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  with  a  touch  of  weariness,  "  just  as 
much  as  I  ever  enjoy  anything." 

"  That  ought  to  be  with  all  your  heart,"  he  said.  "Why 
did  you  pass  me  without  one  word.  Miss  Glynton  ?" 

She  smiled  the  cold,  careless  smile  that  she  gave  to 
every  one. 

"  Did  I  ?  I  did  not  think  of  it.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
soprano  who  sung  that  beautiful  ballad  of  Sullivan's." 

"And  so  forgot  me,"  said  the  duke. 

"  You  would  laugh  if  I  said  that  I  did  not  remember 
you  even  enough  to  forget  you,"  she  said.  "  I  did  not 
give  one  thought  to  the  matter." 

"  I  should  say  that  ought  to  crush  me,  cried  the  duke; 
"  but  I  do  not  feel  crushed.  I  shall  make  every  effort  to 
spring  up  again  intact." 

His  heart  was  beating  with  passionate  longing;  but  he 
knew  that  to  attempt  one  word  on  this  crowded,  bril- 
liantly lighted  staircase  would  be  the  greatest  mistake  he 
could  make. 


314  THE  duke's  becbbt. 

"  Shall  I  have  the  pleastire  of  seeing  you  anywhere  this 
evening  ?"  he  said. 

"We  are  going  to  a  conversazione  at  Cromwell  House," 
she  said;  that  will  not  be  very  tempting  to  you." 

"  It  will  be  if  you  are  there,"  he  said;  but  she  made  no 
answer,  only  turned  her  proud  face  away  from  him.  "  Is 
that  your  only  engagement  ?"  he  asked  again. 

"  It  is  the  only  one  that  we  shall  keep,"  she  replied.  "I 
am  tir6d  to-day.  I  like  concerts  best  in  the  evening; 
music  always  makes  me  more  or  less  melancholy,  and  it 
is  rather  too  early  to  feel  melancholy." 

«  Why  should  that  be?"  he  asked. 

"  Because  all  sweet  soimds  are  sad  as  sweet,"  she 
replied. 

"They  ought  not  to  be  so  to  you;"  but  she  never  gave 
the  faintest  sign  of  having  heard;  she  never  noticed  any 
compliment  he  paid  to  her,  no  matter  how  pretty  or  dainty 
it  was.  She  drew  the  crimson  and  gold  mass  round  her 
shoulder  and  shivered  slightly  although  it  was  June  and 
the  day  warm.  He  walked  on  by  her  side  in  silence;  the 
conversation  between  them  seemed  to  have  died  a  natural 
death.  No  one  could  have  been  more  calm,  more  care- 
less than  she. 

She  did  not  look  at  him ;  as  for  any  embarrassment  or  con- 
fusion there  was  not  the  faintest  trace  of  it.  He  felt  that 
if  this  kind  of  thing  went  on  much  longer  it  would  drive 
him  mad.  They  parted  as  coolly  and  as  indifferently  as 
she  had  met  him.  He  stood  looking  at  the  carriage  as  it 
drove  away. 

"  That  my  wife,"  he  said  to  himself  in  passionate  anger, 
"  that  cold,  heartless,  proud,  imperial  beauty  my  loving, 
gentle  Naomi.     It  can  not  be ! " 

Later  on  that  evening  he  told  Lady  Valentine  of  the 
interview. 

"I  should  like,"  he  said,  "before  I  take  any  very 
serious  steps,  to  call  upon  her  just  once  in  her  own 
house  to  see  if  any  solution  of  the  difficulty  will  arise 
from  that  What  do  you  say  ?  Would  my  mother  call 
there  to-morrow,  do  you  think;  and  you,  Valentine, 
too?" 

"  The  duchess  would  go  anywhere  you  wished,  I  am 
sure;  and  if  I  could  serve  you,  I  would  go  through  ftrf 
•nd  water  for  you." 


THE  duke's  secret.  315 

** Gdd  bleas you,  Yalentine,"  he  said;  and  these  kindly 
words  brought  tears  to  her  tears. 

The  duchess  was  most  wilhng. 

"I  had  already  thought  of  it,  Bertrand,"  she  said.  "Mr. 
Glynton  was  so  very  kind  over  the  fancy  fair  that  I  shall 
be  glad  to  show  my  esteem  for  him." 

So  it  was  arranged  that  they  should  all  three  call  at 
Brook  House  on  the  morrow;  and  until  the  morrow  came 
no  rest,  sleep,  or  peace  came  to  the  Duke  of  Castlemayne. 

"I  could  not  live  through  much  more  of  it,"  he 
groaned  aloud;  "this  is  worse  than  the  suspense,  for  this 
is  intolerable,  and  I  lived  through  that." 

The  loving  eyes  of  Lady  Valentine  detected  the  nervous 
emotion  and  agitation  under  which  he  suffered;  and  in 
her  kindly  fashion  she  did  her  very  best  to  cheer  him. 

CHAPTER  LVm. 

"she  is  indiffeeent  to  tou.** 

The  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  felt  some  little  surprise, 
which  she  was  far  too  well  bred  to  express,  even  by  a 
look,  when  they  were  shown  into  the  magnificent  drawing- 
room  at  Brook  House;  the  perfect  and  exquisite  taste 
displayed  struck  her  more  than  anything  else. 

She  had  expected  everything  new,  with  plenty  of  gild- 
ing; but  these  rooms  were  decorated  and  furnished  as 
harmoniously  and  perfectly  as  her  own.  It  was  no  mean 
home  of  a  parvenu  or  of  a  plebian;  it  differed  from  others 
simply  in  being  more  magnificent. 

Miss  Glynton  was  alone.  The  millionaire  had  gone  on 
a  wooing  expedition,  and  his  return  was  uncertain.  She 
received  her  visitors  with  the  most  exquisite  grace.  The 
duke  could  not  help  recalling  Lady  Valentine's  words, 
"  A  perfect  woman  of  the  world."  In  her  manner  to  the 
duchess  there  was  the  faintest  shade  of  graceful  defer- 
ence; to  Lady  Valentine,  easy  graceful  courtesy  that 
completely  ignored  all  jealousy  or  rivalry  to  the  duke. 
She  was  simply  gracefully  charming. 

The  three  ladies  were  soon  engaged  in  an  animated  dis- 
cussion, the  duke  adding  a  word  here  and  there.  He 
wondered,  as  he  sat  tbere,  what  good  he  could  have 
imagined  would  result  from  this  visit — only  to  purzle  him 


816  i  SE  duke's  seobet. 

•till  more;  lor,  if  this  proud,  beautiful  woman,  who  did 
the  houors  of  her  house  so  gracefully,  were  indeed  Naomi, 
then  all  love  for  him,  all  interest  in  him,  was  certainly 
dead  in  her  heart. 

His  attention  was  suddenly  recalled  by  hearing  his 
mother  speak  of  Rood  Castle,  and  he  found  that  she  was 
giving  Miss  Glynton  a  most  pressing  invitation  to  go  there 
during  the  autumn.  He  listened  in  breathless  agitation. 
She  thanked  the  duchess  gracefully,  earnestly;  there  was 
a  slight  flush  on  her  beautiful  face,  a  light  brighter  than 
usual  in  her  eyes  as  she  declined. 

They  had  so  many  arrangements  for  the  autumn  months 
that  she  did  not  think  it  would  be  possible  to  spare  even 
a  few  days. 

The  duchess  repeated  what  a  great  pleasure  it  would 
be  to  her  if  she  could  change  any  of  her  arrangements, 
evenf  if  she  only  spent  three  days  with  her. 

But  Miss  Glynton  was  quite  firm;  there  was  no  possi- 
biKty  of  her  being  able  to  make  a  visit. 

"  It  would  have  been  a  great  pleasure  to  me  1^  have 
seen  Rood  Castle,"  she  said,  "  for  I  hear  that  it  is  verily 
the  beau  ideal  of  an  old  English  castle.  I  am  sorry  not 
to  be  able  to  accept  your  grace's  kind  invitation." 

In  the  proud  beautiful  face  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
confusion  or  embarrassment;  no  one  could  ever  have 
dreamed  that  the  imperially  beautiful  woman  sitting  there, 
declining  to  visit  one  of  the  finest  old  castles  in  the 
country,  had  been  turned  with  shame  and  disgrace  from 
its  walls;  had  been  dismissed  with  bitter,  scathing  words 
by  the  one  who  now  entreated  her  presence  there  as 
crowning  grace.  Nothing  seemed  more  wildly  improb- 
able: 

The  duke,  looking  at  her  and  listening  to  her,  thought 
himself  the  victim  of  some  wild  chimera  or  some  ma<* 
fancy. 

His  eyes,  full  of  wonder,  met  Lady  Valentine's;  and  in 
her  glance  he  read  unutterable  surprise.  If  this  indeed 
were  the  Naomi  who  had  been  sent  away  in  high  wrath 
from  Rood  Castle,  she  was  a  model  among  women.  She 
turned  in  her  graceful  fasliion  to  Lady  Vfilentine. 

"I  am  sorry  this  season  is  over,''  she  said.  "I  hav« 
made  some  very  pleasant  acquaintances;  and  it  is  doubt* 
fui  whether  I  shall  meet  many  of  them  agaijo." 


T&E  duee's  seobet.  317 

SomethiBg  impelled  Lady  Valentine  to  speak;  she  could 
keep  silent  no  longer, 

"Are  you  leaving  England,  then?"  she  asked.  "Do 
you  intend  to  return  to  America." 

The  duchess  looked  shocked  by  this  very  abrupt  ques- 
tion; but  Miss  Glynton  replied  with  a  smile. 

"I  do  not  think  we  shall  be  in  London  again — at  least 
for  many  years." 

She  spoke  quietly,  and  as  though  the  fact  had  no  par- 
ticular interest  for  any  one.  The  duke  looked  bewildered. 
Lady  Valentine  was  growing  quite  excited;  her  face 
flushed,  and  his  Grace  of  Castlemayne  grew  nervous, 
knowing  what  a  champion  she  was  in  his  cause. 

"I  am  sorrry,"  said  the  duchess;  and  her  clear  low  voice 
fell  like  a  calm  over  them.  "  Perhaps  to  strangers  who 
have  the  wide  world  to  choose  from  England  may  not  be 
the  most  attractive  country  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Miss  Glynton,  quietly,  "  I  do  not  think  it  is 
but  I  shall  carry  away  from  it  some  very  happy  and  pleasant 
memories." 

"  She  never  intends  me  to  recognize  her,"  said  the  duke 
to  himself  with  dismay. 

"  She  will  leave  England  without  one  word  to  him/* 
thought  Lady  Valentine. 

Then  Miss  Glynton  turned  the  conversation  to  some 
other  subject;  and  the  duke  felt  that  he  had  been  foiled  in 
the  object  of  his  visit;  if  anything  he  was  even  further  from 
her  than  he  had  been.  She  had  spoken  of  leaving  London 
and  England  as  coolly  as  she  would  have  spoken  of  crossing 
the  room.  She  seemed  to  look  upon  the  fuct  that  they  might 
never  meet  again  as  something  quite  natural,  and  not  to  be 
avoided;  and  yet  this  woman  was  supposed  to  be  his  wife. 
He  saw  from  Lady  Valentine's  face  that  tbere  was  some 
little  fear  lest  she  should  frankly  speak  out  the  thoughts 
that  were,  he  thought,  weighing  on  her  mind. 

The  duchess  had  ah'eady  prolonged  the  call  some  few 
minutes  beyond  the  proper  regulation  time,  and  he  felt 
relieved  when  at  last  she  rose  to  go. 

"I  hope,"  said  her  grace,  that  we  shall  meet  again  before 
you  leave  London." 

*'  It  would  be  a  great  pleasure  to  me,"  said  the  beau- 
tiful woman,  calmly;"  but  I  am  afraid  my  engagements  ar« 
•o  numerous  that  I  am  hardly  able  to  make  fresh  ones." 


318  THE  duke's  secbet. 

"  Would  Miss  Glyntou  waive  ceremony  and  dine  with 
us  on  Tuesday  ?"  said  tlie  duke.  "  Mr.  Glynton,  I  know, 
joins  the  Richmond  party  on  that  day," 

She  looked  up  at  liim  with  a  smile. 

"  And  you  think  I  shall  not  like  being  alone.  It  is  very 
kind  of  you  to  think  of  it." 

As  the  duchess  eagerly  joined  in,  it  was  agreed  upon, 
and  the  visitors  left.  Not  one  word  could  the  duke  and 
Lady  Valentine  exchange  until  they  had  reached  home, 
and  her  grace  had  gone  to  rest  after  the  fatigue  of  the 
day.     Then  he  sought  her  in  gi-eatest  haste. 

"Valentine,"  he  cried,  "  do  come  and  talk  with  me;  my 
mind  is  all  chaos.     What  did  you  think  of  that  interview  ?" 

"  I  have  never  been  so  puzzled.  If  you  were  not  so  cer- 
tain I  should  decidedly  think  the  whole  story  a  mistake. 
If  it  is  no  mistake,  then  I  should  say  that  most  decidedly 
all  care  or  affection  for  you  is  quite  dead  in  her  heart,  and 
that  she  never  intends  you  to  recognize  her." 

"  I  am  afraid  that  it  is,"  he  said,  sadly.  "  Why,  then, 
did  she  come  ?" 

"  She  may  have  half  a  dozen  reasons  for  that.  Perhaps 
she  wanted  to  see  how  you  were  getting  on,  what  you 
were  doing,  if  you  had  married  again,  or  anything  of  the 
kind.  I  do  not  mean  actually  married  again;  but  if  you 
were  supposed  to  care  for  any  one.  She  wanted,  prob- 
ably, to  see  just  how  you  were  situated." 

"  If  she  had  interest  enough  left  in  me  to  make  her  do 
that  she  would  hardly  be  so  cool  and  so  careless,"  said 
the  duke. 

"  There  is  just  one  thing  more,"  said  Lady  Valentine. 
"  Perhaps  coming  to  London  may  have  bean  entirely  tha 
uncle's  wish,  and  she  could  not  disobey  if  he  wished  her 
to  come.  I  fancy  that  is  the  real  reason,  because  though 
she  has  been  here  in  London  so  long,  and  must  have 
known  that  we  were  here,  she  never  even  sought  or  avoided 
us.  She  wanted  to  see  how  the  land  lay;  but  she  is  in- 
different to  you." 

"  But,  Valentine,  she  can  not  be  so  cruel  as  to  wish  to 
keep  me  always  in  suspense.  She  must  have  known  that 
my  mother's  life  is  darkened  with  anxiety  o^er  me.  She 
must  know  that  I  have  suffered  suspense  such  as  v«ry 
few  suffer.     She  eanixot  mean  to  punish  me  all  my  lif*  U) 


THE  duke's  SECREl-.  319 

"  Tou  must  ask  lier,"  said  Lady  Valentine.  "  It  will  ba 
useless  to  delay.  You  must  tell  her  that  you  recogniza 
her,  and  ask  her  what  she  means  to  do." 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  I  must  do  what  you  say.  I  made  up 
my  mind  while  we  were  at  Brook  House  this  morning. 
That  is  why  I  pressed  her  to  dine  with  us.  If  she  cornea 
on  Tuesday  I  mean  to  speak  to  her;  it  is  time  something 
was  done.  Great  Heaven,  to  think  that  Naomi  should 
Vive  so  near  to  me  for  so  long  and  yet  should  make  no 
single  effort;  and  she  must  have  seen  how  unhappy  I  am. 
How  unsettled.  I  have  said  nothing  of  the  kind  to  her. 
Why,  Valentine,  she  must  have  grown  hard  of  heart,  she 
who  was  so  loving  once." 

She  went  nearer  to  him  in  her  anxiety  to  comfort  him, 
and  laid  her  hands  lovingly  on  his  shoulders. 

"  Let  your  heart  rest  now,"  she  said.  "  You  have  done 
your  best.  You  are  in  that  most  trying  position  any  man 
could  be  placed  in.  Now  let  your  heart  rest.  On  Tues- 
day you  will  be  able  to  see  her  and  talk  at  your  ease.  I 
will  manage  it  for  you;  you  need  not  fear.  I  will  talk  to 
the  duchess.  Now,  try  to  forget  it  all  until  Tuesday,  and 
on  Tuesday  you  "ivill  know  the  best  and  worst  of  it." 

He  kissed  the  little  white  hands  that  rested  so  lov- 
ingly on  his  shoulders,  wondering  in  his  heart  whether, 
if  his  wife  came  back  to  him  in  all  her  fair  young  lovli- 
ness,  whether  she  would  be  dearer  to  him  than  this  gentle 
girl. 

"  Until  Tuesday,"  he  said;  and  she  re-echoed  the  worda. 
Until  Tuesday." 

CHAPTEK  LIX. 

LADY  valentine's  SCHEME. 

Tuesday  came;  the  morning  dawned  bright  and  beauti* 
ful,  and  indeed  what  comfort  could  be  derived  from  out- 
ward circumstance  his  Grace  of  Castlemayne  needed  it. 
He  was  in  a  most  terrible  state  c^f  doubt  and  indecision; 
he  was  miserable  beyond  all  powe?  of  word  to  describe. 

Lady  Valentine  had  promised  t-o  secure  a  tete-a-tete. 
She  bad  persuaded  the  duchess  to  be  •content  with  a  small 
dinner-party.  Lord  and  Lady  Mo.ntavon,  Lady  Belle 
Chalmers,  Sir  Arthur  Hunt^  Miss  Gl»^uton  were  the  guest* 


820  THE  DUKE*S  SECREt. 

j  Qvited.  Lady  Valentine  had  already  arranged  the  pro* 
gramme  in  her  own  mind. 

The  duchess  dearly  loved  a  rubber  at  whist;  and  Belle 
Was  an  excellent  player.  With  Lord  and  Lady  Montavop 
ihey  could  form  a  quartet  for  whist,  which  would  keep 
tliem  engaged.  She  could  entertain  Sir  Arthur,  who  was 
jilways  perfectly  happy  if  he  could  only  find  some  one  to 
play  the  Hccompaniments  of  his  very  mild  tenor  songs. 

"Iwi'iplay  for  him,  Bertrand,"  said  Lady  Valentine, 
"Until  he  has  gone  through  his  whole  repertoire.  I  know 
raore  than  twenty  songs  he  sings.  You  will  easily  manage 
the  rest;  speak  openly  of  the  magnificent  Turner  you 
bouj^ht  the  other  day,  tell  Miss  Glynton  about  it,  then  say 
how  pleased  you  will  be  to  show  her  the  picture-gallery; 
in  this  way  it  will  seem  most  natural  that  you  should  have 
a  tete-a-tele  with  her;  and  if  you  are  very  long  or  I  think 
that  matters  are  very  unpleasant,  I  shall  come  to  the  res- 
cue, Bertrand." 

Evening  came;  the  long  hours  of  the  long  day  had 
passed.  Lady  Valentine  went  to  dress,  wondering  as  she 
did  8o,  what  would  happen  before  that  eventful  day  closed. 
Perhaps  the  knowledge  that  she  should  stand  in  rivalry 
before  the  most  beautiful  woman  of  her  time  prompted 
her  to  make  a  more  than  usually  exquisite  toUet.  She 
wore  a  dress  of  pale-blue  velvet  trimmed  with  beautiful 
point  lace — a  dress  that  from  its  exquisite  grace  and  per- 
fect fit  made  her  fair  young  beauty  fairer  than  ever;  she 
veore  neither  flowers  nor  jewels;  but  the  rich  shining 
masses  of  hair  were  artistically  arranged,  and  Lady  Val- 
entine was  satisfied  with  the  result.  She  had  not  the 
grand,  passionate  beauty  of  Miss  Glynton,  the  finished 
perfect  womanhood,  the  stately  grace,  but  her  fair  young 
loveliness  had  a  winning  charm  all  its  own;  even  she, 
brave  and  courageous  as  she  was  natm-ally,  even  she  felt  a 
little  trepidation  now  that  the  time  was  come.  She  was 
first  in  the  drawing-voom — the  duchess  was  never  early. 
She  wished  to  receive  Miss  Glynton  when  she  came.  The 
first  arrivals  were  Lord  and  La<]y  Montavon,  then  followed 
Sir  Arthur.  Lady  Belle  and  Mfss  Glynton  came  together. 
In  spite  of  herself  Lady  Valentine's  heart  sunk  when 
she  saw  that  magnificent 'face  and  figure,  the  exquisite 
toilet.  If  Miss  Glvnton  had  tried  the  world  over  she 
could  not  have  found  anything  so  exquisite  as  the  costume 


THE  OUEEH  SECRET.  ^ 

elie  had  chosen  for  that  evening.  It  was  all  white  lace, 
trimmed  with  beautiful  heart' s-ease  and  green  leaves. 
She  wore  a  knot  of  the  moat  lovely  purple  heart's-ease  in 
her  brown  hair;  the  white  lace  was  looped  up  with  sprays 
of  heart's-ease,  and  the  beautiful  costume  enhanced  her 
grand  loveliness  as  no  other  dress  could  have  done. 

Lady  Valentine  impulsively  held  out  her  hand  to  her 
superb  rival.  She  was  her  rival,  and  she  was  paining 
the  very  heart  of  the  man  Lady  Valentine  loved  best. 
Still  she  was  Bertrand's  wife,  and  the  mother  of  his  son. 
The  loving  heart  was  warm  to  her,  even  though  she  was 
her  rival. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  these  two  who  were  in  such 
deadly  struggle,  yet  unconscious  of  it. 

"  Before  the  night  is  over,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  Ber- 
Irand  will  know  Ms  fate  and  I  shall  know  mine." 

She  looked  at  the  small  white  hand  of  her  rival — the 
hand  that  was  to  deal  out  life  or  death.  Then  the  duchess 
came  in,  and  the  party  was  complete — all  but  the  duke. 
Lady  Valentine  wondered  why  he  lingered;  he  was  so  late 
and  so  long  that  she  began  to  think  he  was  not  coming. 
She  was  greatly  relieved  when  the  door  opened  and  he 
entered  the  room. 

Lady  Montavon  was  nearest  to  him.  When  he  had 
spoken  to  her  and  her  husband,  had  shaken  hands  with 
Sir  Arthur,  and  exchanged  greetings  with  Lady  Belle,  he 
crossed  the  room  to  where  Miss  Glynton  and  Lady  Val- 
entine were  standing. 

Lady  Valentine  in  her  heart  felt  proud  of  him;  there 
were  resolve  and  determination  on  the  handsome  face — 
courage  and  bravery.  She  knew  from  the  expression  of 
his  eyes  there  was  to  be  no  more  playing  with  him.  Miss 
Glynton  did  not  offer  him  her  hand,  but  she  spoke  with 
the  usual  polished  indifference;  but  something  in  the 
dake's  face  seemed  to  strike  her,  and  she  was  less  at  her 
ease  than  usuaL 

"  We  are  quite  a  small  party,"  said  the  duke. 

"  I  am  glad,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  tired  of  large  parties," 
while  Lady  Valentine  stood  by  in  sheer  wonder.  These 
two  talking  so  pleasantly,  so  lightly.  Could  they  be  hus- 
band and  wife,  with  the  barrier  of  a  great  tragedy  between 
khem? 


diU  THE  DTTEE^S  SS0KE¥. 

"  Who  will  ever  understand  life  or  what  it  holds?**  she 
asked  herself. 

Dinner  was  announced,  and  the  duke  gave  his  arm  to 
Lady  Montavou;  Lord  Montavon  followed,  with  Miss 
Glynton;  so  it  happened  that  she  sat  next  to  the  duke. 
She  had  plenty  of  time  for  observations  then.  She  no- 
ticed that  he  eat  nothing;  that  plate  after  plate  was  taken 
away  untouched;  that  although  he  talked,  laughed,  and 
entertained  his  guests  royally,  he  was  really  distrait  and 
thoughtful.  Once  or  twice  she  found  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her  face  with  a  most  pecuhar  expression. 

It  seemed  to  the  duke  that  the  dinner  never  would  end 
in  his  fierce  impatience  to  seek  the  beautiful  woman  and 
force  the  truth  from  her. 

Now  that  he  had  nerved  himself  for  it  he  hated  him- 
self for  not  having  done  it  before.  Why  should  he  have 
been  frightened  ?  She  was  his  wife,  no  matter  how  they 
were  parted;  and  he  had  a  right  to  make  her  speak.  She 
should  keep  her  secret  from  him  no  longer. 

A  flame  of  resolve  leaped  into  his  eyes;  a  flame  of 
courage  made  his  heart  leap.  Her  beauty  and  magnifi- 
cence, her  coldness,  pride,  and  indifference  should  awe 
him  no  longer.  If  this  dreary  episode  of  eating  and 
drinking  were  but  ended  ! 

At  last,  and  to  his  infinite  relief,  the  duchess  gave  the 
signal,  and  the  ladies  withdrew.  The  duke  looked  at  her 
as  she  passed  him  by,  with  her  air  of  imperial  pride  and 
grace;  the  time  was  coming  when  that  same  pride  would 
fall  before  the  words  he  had  to  utter. 

Time  slowly  passed,  but  he  was  free  at  last;  the  gentle- 
man joLa?d  the  ladies,  and  then  Lady  Valentine's  pretty 
little  scheme  was  at  once  put  into  action.  The  duchess 
was  delighted,  so  also  were  the  others;  it  was  a  pleasure 
they  seldom  enjoyed.  She  arranged  the  card-table  in 
the  most  comfortable  fashion,  and  was  rewarded  by  see- 
ing them  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  the  first  hand.  Then 
she  went  to  Sir  Arthur. 

"  I  have  been  promising  myself  the  great  pleasure   of 

playing  some  of  your  accompaniments  this  evening.  Sir 

Arthur.     I  hope  you  will  not  disappoint  me." 

^  His  face  flushed  with  delight.     To  find  a  beautiful  belle 

like  Lady  Valentine  anxious  to  play  his  accompanimentf 


TEE  duke's  SSCBIT. 

wa4B  a  noTelty  for  him,  and  while  she  was  talking  to  Sir 
Arthur,  she  heard  the  duke  speaking  to  Miss  Gljnton. 

He  spoke  so  every  one  in  the  room  could  overhear  him. 
He  began  speaking  of  his  recent  acquisition — the  beauti- 
ful "  Turner,"  and  asked  her  if  she  would  like  to  see  it. 

She  said:  "Yes,  very  much." 

Then  he  asked,  carelessly,  if  she  had  seen  the  picture- 
gallery  at  Brook  House;  if  not,  how  pleased  he  would  be 
to  shew  it  to  her.     She  enjoyed  looking  at  good  pictures 

It  seemed,  as  Lady  Valentine  had  said  it  would  be,  a 
perfectly  natural  arrangement.  Lady  Valentine's  hands 
trembled  on  the  keys  as  she  saw  them  quit  the  drawing- 
room  together. 

CHAPTER   LX. 

"you  ak£  my  wife." 
'    The  scene  that  evening  will  never  die  from  his  memory, 
will  never   fade  from  his  brain.     Every  look  of  hers 
seemed  photographed  on  it;  every  word  she  uttered  re- 
mained with  him  until  he  died. 

They  went  up  the  beautifully  hghted  staircase  together, 
he  talking  about  pictxu-es,  and  Miss  Glyuton  replying  in 
her  calm,  graceful  manner,  until  they  reached  the  picture- 
gallery.  She  seemed  to  forget  altogether  that  she  was 
alone  with  him.  She  gave  him  the  impression  that  she 
was  thinking  entirely  of  the  pictures,  aud  not  in  the  least 
of  him. 

She  paused  before  the  "  Turner." 

"  It  is  very  beautiful,"  she  said.  "  How  true  genius 
makes  itself  felt.  Can  you  believe  that  when  I  stood  be- 
fore Millais's  '  Chill  October  '  I  felt  cold  ?  I  could  really 
feel  the  cold  wind  that  seemed  to  stir  the  reeds.  I  enjoj 
Turner's  paintings." 

Yet  as  he  looked  at  her,  he  thought  to  himself,  "  What 
picture  on  earth  could  ever  be  so  beautiful  ?" 

She  was  standing  where  the  Hght  fell  fidl  on  the  heart's- 
ease  in  her  shining  hair,  on  her  beautiful  face.  The 
clouds  of  soft  white  lace  swept  the  crimson  carpet,  and 
there  was  a  light  on  the  sprays  of  heart's-ease.  Tall, 
graceful,  she  was  the  very  embodiment  of  womanlj 
beauty.  She  was  not  in  the  least  degree  embarrassed  or 
confused  at  finding  herself  alone  wit'  biift-  Jier  w^iolt 
thoughts  were  given  to  the  paintingi. 


324  THE  DTJKE'fe   SECRET. 

If  it  had  been  Lord  Montavon  or  Sir  Arthur  with  her 
she  could  not  have  been  more  indifferent.  She  did  not 
seem  to  notice  that  he  was  looking  intently  at  her. 

"  I  like  Millais's  pictures,"  she  said.  "  Do  you  know 
the  'Stella  andVanesse?'  My  favorite  is  the  '  Black  Bruns- 
wicker.'  I  never  look  at  that  picture  without  tears." 

She  walked  on  with  the  graceful,  easy,  stately  motion 
that  seemed  peculiar  to  her,  the  calmest  smile  on  her  face; 
and  this  time  she  stood  before  an  exquisite  painting  of 
Firth's.     Her  face  lighted  with  admiration. 

"  This  is  very  fine,"  she  said. 

He  went  nearer  to  her;  it  was  not  for  this  he  h&^ 
asked  her  to  come  to  the  picture-gallery — not  for  this — 
and  the  hour  had  come. 

He  stood  some  little  distance  from  her,  and  whispered 
hgr  name  softly,  so  softly  that  the  sound  seemed  to  float 
rOund  her,  "  Naomi,"  and  he  waited  the  effect. 

Slie  never  moved,  the  color  did  not  vary  in  her  face, 
the  smile  did  not  vary  on  her  lips,  her  eyes  retained  their 
kindly  light.  *?^ 

"  Naomi,"  was  the  soft  sound  that  whisperer!  through 
the  gallery. 

It  did  not  reach  or  did  not  touch  her. 
"^V.  Naomi,"  he  whispered  again. 

She  neither  moved  or  stirred,  but  after  a  few  minutes 
she  turned  to  him  with  the  same  careless  smilo. 

"  That  is  a  very  favorite  picture  of  mine,"  she  said. 
"  I  did  not  know  that  you  had  the  original." 

Then  a  great  flame  of  color  rushed  into  his  face,  and  a 
great  light  in  his  eyes.  Was  it  daring  defiance,  or  what  ? 
She  did  not  make  the  faintest  acknowledgment  of  having 
heard  him  speak 

He  made  a  rapid  step  toward  her. 

"Naomi,"  he  cried  again,  and  this  time  his  voice  was 
full  of  pain.  "  Naomi,  you  can  not  ignore  me  in  this 
fashion;  you  shall  not.     You  must  hear  me,  Naomi." 

But  the  beautiful  eyes,  upraised  to  his  in  calm,  proud 
wonder,  had  no  recognition  of  his  words  in  them. 

"  Naomi,  you  must  hear  me,"  he  repeated.  "  Am  I  a 
stick  or  a  stono  ?  Am  I  made  of  ice  or  ol  warble  ?  Do  you 
think  that  I  have  neither  brains  nor  heart,  mind  nor 
memory  ?" 

She  looked  calmly  at  him. 


THE  DUEB^'S  SECBET.  325 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "that  your  grace  has  gone  mad;  I 
can  think  uothing  else." 

"You  will  drive  me  mad,"  he  said.  "Naomi,  speak  to 
me — speak,  I  entreat  of  you,  one  word !" 

"  The  word  that  I  can  speak  is  to  suggest  that  you  will 
allow  uie  to  pass.  I  am  not  accustomed  to  the  society  of 
mad  men." 

She  turned,  as  though  to  quit  the  gallery,  but  he  stood 
before  her. 

"Pray  pardon  me,"  he  said;  "you must  not  go  until  you 
have  heard  what  I  have  to  say." 

"  You  forget  yourself,"  she  cried,  her  face  flushing  and 
her  eyes  shining  brightly.  "  I  am  more  astonished  than 
I  can  express.  You  talk  this — this  intolerable  nonsense 
to  me — and  keep  me  prisoner  here.  I  will  cry  out  for 
some  one  to  come  to  my  rescue,  unless  you  permit  me"*to 
pass." 

"  No,  for  your  own  sake  you  will  not  do  that.  I  want 
you  to  hear  me,  Naomi." 

"  Naomi,"  she  repeated,  impatiently;  "why  do  you  per- 
sist in  calling  me  Naomi  ?  "  Was  there  a  slight  faltering 
of  the  sweet  voice  as  she  uttered  the  name,  or  was  it  his 
fancy  ?  "  Why,"  she  repeated,  angiily,  "  do  you  persist 
in  giving  me  that  name  ?  " 

"  Why  do  I  persist  ?  Because  it  is  yours,  because  it  is 
the  name  of  the  girl  whom  I  loved  with  the  maddest  love 
ever  given  to  any  creature;  whom  I  loved  so  well  that  I 
made  her  my  wife,  and — and  lost  her  through  my  folly." 

"  It  is  all  very  dramatic,  your  grace,"  she  replied;  "  but 
what  has  that  to  do  with  me  ?  " 

"Everything,"  he  cried,  passionately.  "You  are  that 
Naomi — my  wife." 

No  words  could  tell  the  ripple  of  the  scorn  that  passed 
over  her  beautiful  face — the  utter  contempt  of  the  light 
laughter  that  came  from  her  lips. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  whether  you  are  rehearsing  for 
effect,  or  whether  you  have  gone  quite  mad  ?  " 

"  Neither,"  he  replied.  "  I  repeat  that  you  are  the  wife 
I  lost  twelve  years  ago — twelve  long  years  ago — for  whom 
I  have  sought  by  sea  and  land  over  the  whole  wide  world, 
for  whom  I  have  mourned  as  men  seldom  mourn." 

He  stopped  abruptly;  the  terrible  scorn  in  that  beauti« 
ful  face  dazed  him. 


826  THi  duke's  secret. 

"Let  me  pass.  I  have  notliing  to  do  with  this — youi 
wife,  your  loss,  your  search,  your  sorrow,  do  not  concern 
me;  do  not  touch  me."  ' 

"  You  are  my  wife,  Naomi  Wynter,  and  I  claim  the  right 
to  speak  to  you." 

"  It  grows  amusing,"  she  said.  "  It  is  useless  to  be 
angry;  I  may  as  well  laugh;  the  farce  will  end,  I  pre- 
sume, when  ^our  grace  pleases.  I  can  not  and  shall  not 
struggle  to  pass.  I  will  wait  until  your  mad  fit  has 
passed." 

"  I  am  not  mad,  and  you  are  my  wife,"  he  repeated. 

She  sat  down  in  one  of  the  crimson  velvet  lounging- 
chairs,  and  carelessly  opened  her  fan;  he  did  not  know 
that  she  trembled  so  violently  that  she  could  no  longer 
stand. 

"  I  must  wait  your  grace's  time,"  she  said,  "  but  this  is 
a  lesson  to  me  that  I  was  acting  imprudently  in  leaving 
my  friends  to  go  to  look  at  a  picture;  but  I  shall  never 
do  it  again — in  England." 

"  Oh,  Naomi,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel  ? — you  who  were 
so  loving,  so  kind  1  Why  will  you  not  say  that  you  are 
my  lost  wife  ?" 

"  Wife,"  she  repeated,  scornfully.  "  Why  do  you  dare 
to  say  that  I  am  any  man's  wife  ?" 

She  held  out  her  white  hands  shining  with  gems. 

"  Do  I  look  like  a  wife  ?  Do  you  see  any  wedding-ring 
there?"  she  asked, 

"No,  not  now;  perhaps  you  wear  it  on  your  heart, 
Naomi ;  there  was  one  there  once,  for  I  placed  it  on  your 
finger;  do  you  remember  the  morning,  Naomi?  I  placed 
it  there,  and  kissed  it  where  it  shone.  Give  me  your 
hand  now,  and  let  me  see  if  my  ring  is  lost  among  the 
jewels  there." 

She  was  too  much  taken  by  surprise  to  refuse  He 
took  the  white  hand  in  his,  and  looked  among  the  pretty 
gems. 

"No,"  he  said;  "poor  little  ring!  it  is  not  there. 
Where  is  it,  Naomi — your  wedding-ring  ?" 

She  laughed,  but  his  quick  ear  noticed  this  time  that 
her  laugh  was  unsteady.  He  wondered  if  he  were  even 
at  the  beginning  of  the  nctory 

*'  You  would  have  made  a  fine  actor,"  she  said;  "  bat 


THE  DUKE^S  SECBET.  327 

why  you  have  taken  the  trouble  to  go  through  all  this 
for  my  special  benefit,  I  can  not  understand." 

"At  least,"  he  cried,  indignantly,  "I  should  be  an 
actor  with  a  human  heart.  Whereas  you,  Naomi,  are  an 
actress  utterly  without  one.  You  can  have  no  heart,  no 
conscience,  to  tortui'e  me  so.  Do  you  think  that  even  in 
twelve  years  I  have  forgotten  you  ?  Heaven  knows  what 
I  have  8u£fered.  What  I  liave  endured  no  words  of  mine 
can  tell;  and  now  that  I  stand  once  more  before  you,  you 
refuse  to  speak  the  words  which  would  deliver  me  from 
the  greatest  suspense  and  the  greatest  pain  any  man 
could  suffer." 

There  was  that  in  his  voice  which  compelled  her  to 
listen.  She  did ;  it  was  only  to  open  her  beautiful  eyes  a 
little  wider  and  speak  again : 

"  For  whom  does  your  grace  really  take  me  ?" 

"  I  take  you  to  be  the  person  you  are,"  he  replied,  "my 
beloved,  long  lost  wife,  Naomi  Wynter. " 

CHAPTER  LXI. 

"NAOMI,    WHERE  IS  MY   SON?" 

His  words  made  no  impression  on  her.  What  was  he  to 
do  with  this  beautiful,  obdurate  woman  ?  Would  it  be  war 
to  the  knife  between  them  ?  Would  she  drive  him  to  the 
last  extremities  ?  What  could  he  do  with  her  ?  Call  the 
law  to  assist  him  ?  Ah,  no;  there  would  be  no  chivalry  in 
thai  Suddenly  he  remembered  that  he  had  not  tried  his 
most  powerful  plea.  If  this  woman  of  marble  and  ice 
were  to  be  melted,  he  would  melt  her  now. 

She  was  leaning  back  in  the  velvet  chair,  her  face  raised, 
her  whole  attitude  expressive  of  languor  and  indifference. 
She  held  the  jeweled  fan,  every  now  and  then  using  it  as 
though  she  were  tired.  She  was  showing  no  constraint,  no 
uneasiness,  no  confusion.  Just  this  minute  her  eyes  wan- 
dered listlessly  from  paintiag  to  painting,  as  though  she 
she  had  forgotten  him  and  all  that  he  was  saying.  He 
went  nearer  to  her;  he  knelt  down  by  her  side,  and, 
taking  the  fan  from  her  hands,  he  clasped  them  both  in 
his,  and  looked  entreatingly  in  her  face. 

"  Naomi,"  he  said,  "where  is  my  son  ?** 

He  uttered  the  words  in  a  clear,  low  voioe,  and  the^ 
seemed  to  cut  the  air  as  they  felL 

"  Where  is  my  sob  ?  " 


328  THi  duke's  SECEIT. 

i 

He  had  startled  lier  at  last;  her  very  lips  grew  white  J 
the  color  faded  from  bet  face;  the  ligiit  died  from  her 
eyes;  a  shudder  that  she  could  not  control  came  over 
her. 

**  What  have  you  done  with  my  son,  Naomi  ?  Where 
is  he  ?  Are  you  so  cold,  so  cruel  to  me  that  you  will 
never  let  me  see  my  child  ?  You  have  seen  him,  caressed 
him,  taught  him  to  love  you;  but  I — oh,  my  Uod !  my 
heart  Hes  bare  and  desolate — I  have  never  seen  him. 
Where  is  he,  Naomi  ?  What  have  you  done  with  him  ? 
Did  you  ever  teach  him  to  utter  my  name  ?  Did  you 
tell  him  although  that  for  a  few  minutes  I  had  been  a 
contemptible  coward,  yet  that  I  loved  you  and  should 
love  him  ?  Do  you  speak  to  him,  Naomi,  of  the  father 
from  whom  you  so  cruelly  kept  him  ?  I  want  to  see  my 
boy.  I — I  have  heard  how  beautiful  he  is.  .  I  know 
from  those  who  have  seen  him,  and  I  long  for  him.  Let 
him  come  to  me,  Naomi;  if  you  are  cold  and  cruel,  the 
child  will  love  me;  he  will  put  his  arms  round  my  neck 
and  kiss  my  face.     Oh,  Naomi,  where  is  my  boy  ?  " 

She  rose  from  her  seat.  She  drew  her  hands  from 
his  clasp.  He  saw  that  she  shuddered  and  trembled. 
She  drew  back  from  him,  holding  out  her  hands  as  though 
she  would  ward  off  a  blow. 

"Hush,"  she  cried;  "for  Heaven's  sake,  hush!"  and 
he  knew  that  she  had  made  the  confession  of  her  iden- 
tity in  those  few  words.  He  saw  his  advantage,  and 
pursued  it. 

"  If  I  may  never  have  my  wife,  at  least  give  me  my 
child.  Do  you  know  who  he  is,  Naomi  ?  And  yet  you 
dare  to  keep  him  hidden.  He  owns  one  of  the  most 
ancient  and  honored  names  in  England.  He  is  Lord  St. 
Albans — he  is  my  heir.  My  dukedom  must  be  his  some 
day.  His  life  is  most  precious  and  invaluable  to  me 
Give  him  to  me,  Naomi;  he  is  mine — my  very  own — ^just 
as  much  as  he  is  yours.  Oh,  Heaven  I  how  cruel  you  have 
been  to  keep  him  from  me  all  these  years!" 

The  warmer  his  words  grew,  the  more  she  shrunk  from 
him.  She  seemed  to  have  lost  all  notion  of  escaping  him 
now.  She  retreated,  waving  him  from  her,  with  loving, 
moaning  cries,  until  at  last  she  reached  the  great  gilt 
railing  that  surrounded  the  magnificent  copy  of  Hiram 
Power's  "  Greek  Slave,"  and  there  she  stood — a  beautiful 


THE  duke's  SEORjiiT.  329 

womau  at  bay.  Her  white,  wild  face,  her  oatstretched 
hand,  and  the  low  moan  that  came  from  her  lips  filled  hin\ 
with  dismay. 

"  Naomi,"  he  cried,  "I  dou't  wish  to  pain  you — ^to  hurt 
you.  I  would  not  for  the  world;  but  tell  me,  where  is  my 
boy  ?" 

No  answer  came  from  the  white  lips  of  the  beautiful, 
desperate  woman.  She  trembled  so  violently  that  he  felt 
quite  sure  she  would  fall. 

"Naomi,"  he  cried,  "be  reasonable;  speak  to  me. 
What  have  I  said  that  has  agitated  you  so  deeply  ?  What 
have  I  done?  What  is  the  matter?  Speak  only  ouq 
word;  say  that  you  are  my  wife,  and  all  will  be  well." 

But  her  beautiful  head  had  dropped  on  her  breast,  her 
white  eyelids  closed  over  her  blue  eyes,  and  he  saw  that 
she  was  unconscious  of  hifa  words.  It  was  only  natur^ 
that  he  should  raise  the  fail*,  drooping  head  and  pillow  it 
on  his  breast,  that  he  should  kiss  the  colorless  face;  and 
as  he  did  so,  the  old  mad,  passionate  love  that  he  had 
once  felt  for  her  swelled  up  in  his  heart  again,  and  everj 
other  fancy  died. 

How  many  years  had  passed  since  he  had  held  her  in 
his  arms.  How  many  times  he  had  kissed  that  lovely 
face.  And  what  would  she  say  when  she  opened  her  eyes, 
and  found  where  she  was?  What  had  pained  her  so 
greatly  ?  Why  had  she,  so  cold,  so  proud,  so  indifferent, 
fainted,  when  he  asked  for  his  child  ?   What  did  it  mean  ? 

It  was  but  natural  that,  holding  her  once  more  in  his 
arms,  he  swore  that  nothing  should  ever  part  them  again. 
Then  he  heard  a  deep  sigh,  and  he  saw  her  white  eyelids 
open;  but  the  was  powerless  to  help  herself;  he  had 
clasped  her  in  his  arms,  and  held  her  as  though  not  even 
death  should  take  her  from  him. 

It  was  useless  to  struggle,  to  appeal,  the  passionate  love 
of  his  heart  had  found  a  voice,  and  she  must  hear  it. 

"  My  darling,"  he  cried,  "  nay,  you  can  not  escape. 
You  know  you  are  my  own — why  should  you  try  to  deny 
it  ?  If  I  were  not  quite  certain  that  you  were  my  own 
wife,  should  I  kiss  you  like  this — or  this?  Nay,  you 
need  not  try  to  raise  that  beautiful  face;  it  has  been  here 
before.  Oh,  Naomi,  how  the  sweet  memories  of  those 
happy  days  come  over  me !  What  a  coward  I  was !  Can 
^ou  ever  forgive  me  ?     If  I  could  give  my  life  to  undo  it^ 


330  THE  duke's  secret. 

I  would.  I  would  have  died  to  have  undone  it,  directly 
it  was  done." 

She  made  no  answer,  but  tried  to  free  herself  from  his 
embrace." 

"  It  is  of  no  use,  Naomi,"  he  said;  "I  see  how  it  is.  I 
might  have  prayed  and  pleaded  for  hours,  and  you  would 
have  been  deaf,  cold,  and  dumb.  I  must  master  you  first, 
and  that  by  force  of  my  own  love.  Naomi,  I  will  release 
you  at  once,  if  you  will  tell  me  where  is  my  son." 

Again  the  shudder  of  more  than  mortal  fear  came  over 
her. 

"  It  will  be  useless,  Naomi,  after  this,  for  you  to  deny 
that  you  are  my  wife.  Even  had  I  no  other  evidence,  I 
should  feel  sure  of  it,  from  the  way  in  which  you  shrink 
fromtbe  mention  of  my  child;  if  you  are  not  the  mother 
of  my  son,  why  should  you  shrink  and  shudder  when  his 
name  is  mentioned  ?  You  can  not  go  back  to  your  posi- 
tion of  proud  indifference,  and  feign  ignorance.  The 
time  has  come  when  you  must  speak.  Naomi,  whisper 
to  me  one  word;  say  'Yes'  to  my  often  asked  question. 
Are  you  my  wife  ?" 

Then,  with  a  desperate  effort,  she  freed  herself  from 
his  circling  arms,  and  tried  to  stand  erect,  but  could  not 
control  the  trembling  of  her  limbs.  Once  more  she 
clasped  the  gilded  raiUng  and  looked  at  him,  quite  unable 
to  speak. 

"  You  see  for  yourself,  my  dear,"  he  cried,  "  that 
Heaven  itself  interferes ;  you  are  ill,  you  can  not  stand. 
Oh,  Naomi,  there  are  two  voices  pleading  in  your  heart, 
the  voice  of  the  wife  who  loved  me,  and  the  voice  of  the 
mother  who  Holds  my  child  in  keeping  for  me." 

Down  went  the  fair,  queenly  head  again,  and  once 
more  he  wondered  what  there  was  in  the  mention  of  his 
child  that  should  cause  this  strong  emotion.  He  laid  his 
hand  lovingly  on  her  golden-brown  hair. 

"  My  darling  Naomi,  did  you  think  I  should  let  you 
die  out  of  my  life,  and  make  no  effort  whatever  to  save 
you  ?  Did  you  for  one  moment  think — although  I  dis- 
honored myself  by  that  one  act  of  cowardice,  did  you 
believe  that  I  cared  so  little  for  you  ?  God  knows  I  have 
poured  out  money  like  water;  I  would  have  given  the 
last  farthings  in  my  purse;  I  would  have  part«d  with  mj 


THE  duke's  SECBET.  ^1 

last  jewel,  with  the  last  acre  of  my  estate,  to  nave  found 
you.     I>o  you  believe  me,  or  do  you  not?" 

No  answer;  he  did  not  heed  her  silence,  but  went  on: 

"  I  gave  time  also.  I  went — ah!  who  shall  ever  tell 
you  the  story  of  my  wanderings  ?  "Wherever  it  seemed 
most  probable  to  me  that  I  might  find  traces  of  you,  I 
went.  I  employed  the  most  skillful  men  in  England  to 
find  you.  I  can  honestly  say  that  I  did  not  leave  one 
thing  undone,  and  it  was  through  the  skill  of  one  of  these 
saen  that  I  have  found  you  at  last." 

She  raised  her  head  with  a  haughty  gesture,  as  though 
she  would  deny  that  she  had  been  found;  but  he  bent 
down  and  lovingly  kissed  the  shining  hair. 

"I  can  swear  to  you,  Naomi,  that  I  have  done  all  a 
man  could  do  to  atone  for  the  wrong.  I  have  sought  for 
you  far  and  near,  longed  for  you,  prayed  for  you,  wept 
for  you.  Heaven  knows  how  I  have  longed  for  you,  but 
no  words  can  tell.  And  my  darliug,"  he  continued,  in  a 
low,  passionate  voice,  "I  have  suffered  also,  because  I 
love  you.  You  can  form  no  idea  of  what  life  has  been 
since  I  lost  you.  The  knowledge  that  somewhere  in  this 
■wide  world  I  had  a  wife  and  child  has  been  to  me  simple 
torture.  Do  you  think  that  my  heart  never  longed  for 
you  ?  Do  you  think  that  in  my  dreams  by  night  and  by  day 
you  were  not  the  one  object?  I  have  been  the  most 
miserable  of  men.  I  have  spent  the  most  wretched 
years.     Have  you  no  pity  for  them  ?  " 

Still  she  made  no  answer.     He  went  on: 

"  You  could  never  dream,  Naomi,  what  my  poor,  proud 
mother  has  had  to  suffer.  She  has  been  so  anxious  to 
see  me  married.  She  dishkes  the  Everleighs  so  much, 
and  Lady  Everleigh  has  been  so  insolent,  so  cruelly  in- 
solent to  her,  so  triumphant  over  her !  She  has  boasted 
so  much  that  her  son  would  succeed  me,  that  he  would 
take  my  place.  She  has  said  openly  that  I  should  never 
marry,  and  has  hinted  at  the  reason  why.  Think  what 
my  poor,  proud  mother  has  endured !  For  many  years, 
with  great  bitterness,  she  has  been  praying  me  to  choose 
a  wife  from  the  number  of  women  to  whom  she  intro- 
duced me.  The  fact  that  I  did  not  marry  has  darkened 
and  spoiled  her  Ufe;  but,  Naomi,  you  know  that  I  could 
not  give  one  thought  to  any  other  wsorijige  wkile  you 
W«r©'iv'n§." 


832  THE  duke's  seceet. 

He  knew  she  was  listening  to  his  words;  he  could  hear 
the  deep-drawn,  bitter  sighs;  he  saw  that  she  made  no 
more  impatient  movements  to  escape. 

"I  did  you  a  cruel  wrong  years  ago,  Naomi — most 
cruel.  But  you  have  been  as  cruel  to  me.  I  never  in- 
tended, when  you  left  Eood  Castle,  to  be  one  day  away 
from  you,  my  dear.  You  have  left  me  in  suspense,  pain, 
anguish  of  mind,  bitter,  unavailing  sorrow  and  regret  for 
twelve  years.  Twelve  years  !  "  he  repeated.  "  Now, 
Naomi,  in  the  name  of  justice,  I  ask  you,  which  of  us  has 
sinned  most  greatly  against  the  other  ?  "Which  has  been 
most  cruel  ?    Answer  me  that." 

CHAPTER  LXIL 

AN   INDIGNANT   WOMAN. 

The  Duke  of  Castlemayne  repeated  his  question — 

"  Which  of  us  two  has  been  most  cruel  toward  the 
other  ?  " 

Then  she  raised  her  colorless  face. 

He  saw  that  she  would  not  again  deny  that  she  was  not 
his  wife.     She  looked  at  him  more  calmly. 

"  You,"  she  replied;  "  you  who  left  me  in  the  hour  of  my 
distress  and  shame.  You,  from  whom  a  word  would  have 
saved  me,  and  you  refused  to  speak  that  word.  I  am 
Naomi  Wynter — the  simple,  foolish,  unhappy  girl  who 
placed  her  trust  in  you,  and  was  rewarded  with  the  basest 
desertion.    I  am  Naomi,  but  your  wife — never  again?" 

The  words  fell  clear  and  calm,  cutting  the  silence  that 
reigned  around  them. 

"We  will  not  discuss  that  now,"  he  said;  "perhaps 
when  you  know  more  about  my  sorrow,  and  what  I  have 
Buffered  you  will  be  more  merciful — more  pitiful.  Just 
let  us  speak  of  yourself.  Oh,  Naomi,  what  a  meeting  for 
us!" 

"How  could  you  do  it?"  she  said;  and  the  piteous 
reproach  in  her  face  and  voice  touched  his  heart  more 
than  any  words  could  have  done.  "  How  could  you  ?  I 
was  so  young,  so  friendless;  I  loved  you  so  much,  I  was 
your  wife.    How  could  you  do  it?" 

"  I  do  not  know.  Listen  to  me,  Naomi:  I  have  no  ex- 
cuse— I  can  offer  none ;  none  that  would  avail  me  in  the 
least.  There  could  never  be  any  excuse  for  such  a  thing 
in  any  man,    The  only  explanation  is  that  for  the  timt^ 


TBS  jitke'b  secbet.  d3S 

being  I  was  paralyzed.  You  know  that  my  mother  was 
very  proud,  very  haughty;  she  had  gieat  influence  over 
my  father  aud  myself.  No  man  hving  ever  could  or  has 
given  me  the  sUghtest  sensation  of  fear,  but  I  honestly 
believe  that  I  was  afraid  of  my  mother." 

"  Aud  you  sacrificed  me  to  her  ?"  she  said. 

"To  my  eternal  sorrow  and  remorse!  Yet,  judge  me 
fedrly,  Naomi :  love  for  you  was  as  strong  in  my  heart  as 
fear  of  my  mother.  I  was  afraid  if  she  knew  of  our  mar- 
riage, she  would  at  once  have  it  set  aside  and  parted  us. 
I  did  not  know  how,  but  she  had  always  seemed  to  me  so 
powerful.  Then  I  thought  that  if  you  went  away  I  would 
follow  you  in  a  few  hours  and  take  you  to  River  View 
where  we  might  have  lived  in  peace  and  happiness  for 
years.  I  sent  a  message  to  you ;  but  that  horrible  woman, 
my  mother's  maid  Sidonie,  would  not  allow  it  to  be  de- 
livered. I  wrote  a  note  to  you.  She  would  not  give  it  to 
you.  Then  I  sent  Leduc  with  orders  not  to  leave  you 
until  he  could  telegraph  me  to  come  to  wherever  you 
were.  All  the  misery  and  sorrow  of  these  long  years 
have  been  caused  by  the  mistake  he  made  in  leaving  you 
before  I  came.  He  saw  it  when  it  was  too  late;  but  from 
that  moment  until  this  I  have  never  relaxed  in  my  efforts 
to  find  you." 

"  Strange,"  she  said,  bitterly,  "  that  you  should  take  so 
much  trouble  to  find  what  seemed  so  little  worth  keeping 
— most  strange !" 

"Naomi,"  he  said,  humbly,  "I  make  no  excuse;  if  I 
had  been  face  to  face  with  a  foe,  I  should  not  have  run 
away;  if  the  feet  of  my  foe  were  pressed  on  my  throat,  I 
woidd  not  cry  for  mercy.  I  will  challenge  any  man  for 
courage;  but  mine  failed  me  before  my  mother's  wrath. 
I  was  young  when  I  made  that  fatal  mistake — I  should 
not  make  it  now.  There  is  no  humiliation  so  deep  that  I 
would  not  make  to  obtain  your  pardon  for  it  My  darling, 
X  sinned;  but  Heaven  knows  that  1  have  suffered.  You 
were  so  gentle  once,  Naomi,  so  kind,  so  lovely,  that  you 
would  not  have  refused  pardon  even  to  your  most  bitter 
foe." 

"  A  foe  would  have  proved  a  truer  friend  than  my  hus- 
band," she  replied.  "  Have  you  ever  thought  how 
atrocious,  how  horrible  your  conduct  was  ?  I  was  vour 
lawful  wife — a  joung  wife  with  no  one  but  you  to  love, 


334  WE  duke's  sechet. 

and  in  your  very  presence  you  allowed  your  mother  to 
brand  me  as  a  lost  woman.  You  stood  by  when  she 
accused  me  of  having  sought  you,  of  having  forgotten  the 
modesty  and  delicacy  of  my  sex  and  age,  of  having  thrust 
myself  on  your  notice,  xou  stood  by  mute  and  dumb, 
refusing  to  speak  the  word  that  would  have  saved  me. 
And  after  that  you  dare  to  kiss  me,  to  call  me  wife,  to 
expect  that  I  shall  forgive  you  ?  Never  I  I  appealed  to 
you,"  she  continued,  in  a  voice  of  passionate  emotion. 
"And  what  was  your  answer?  You  looked  at  me  and 
made  no  reply.  I  might  with  more  hope  have  appealed 
to  a  marble  statue.  You  left  me,  shamed,  branded,  dis- 
graced, when  one  word  from  you  would  have  saved  me. 
Then  you  ask  who  has  been  the  most  cruel,  you  or  I  ? 
What  manner  of  man  can  you  be  to  Etsk  such  a  question?" 

"  I  must  have  been  mad,"  he  said,  humbly ;  "  yet 
Heaven  knows  that  it  was  the  only  cowardly  act  of  my 
life,  the  only  one." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  it  was  bad  enough  to  mar 
the  life  of  a  better  and  nobler  man  than  you.  I  have 
read  much  and  I  have  seen  much  of  the  world;  but  I 
never  heard  of  a  parallel  incident;  for  a  man  to  sacri- 
fice his  wife's  honor  and  good  name  to  the  fear  of  his 
mother.  Then  you  ask  me  which  was  most  cruel  ?  I 
laugh  such  a  question  to  scorn.  I  did  what  you  made 
me  do.  Your  silence  shamed  and  branded  me  ;  your 
silence  drove  me,  with  a  red  brand  on  my  brow,  from 
your  mother's  roof  into  the  wide  world  ;  your  silence 
took  from  me  the  name  of  wife,  and  gave  me  another 
that  your  mother  was  not  slow  to  upbraid  me  with;  your 
silence  bhghted  my  life,  and — and  broke  my  heart." 

She  fell  on  her  knees,  leaning  her  head  against  the 
gilded  raiUngs,  and  weeping  as  woman  never  wept  be- 
fore; the  tears  fell  like  rain  down  her  beautiful  colorless 
face — drawn,  bitter  sobs.  Here  was  a  sorrow  before 
which  he  was  powerless;  every  word  she  had  uttered 
was  true,  and  they  had  lashed  him  like  the  sharp  thongs 
of  a  whip.  He  was  humbled  before  her;  he  could  not 
bear  the  sound  of  her  weeping;  it  seemed  to  tear  his 
▼ery  heart,  and  he  laid  his  hand  on  the  golden  head, 
•very  hair  of  which  was  so  dear  to  him. 

"  Naomi,  do  not;  you  distress  me  so  greatly." 


THE  duke's  secret.  835 

She  flung  off  the  caressing  hand,  her  face  flushed,  her 
eyes  flamed  righteous  anger  on  him. 

"  Do  not  touch  me,"  she  cried.  "  I  will  not  bear  the 
touch  of  your  hand;  it  is  horrible  to  me." 

She  rose  from  her  knees  and  stood  before  him  with  the 
greatest  disdain,  the  most  bitter  scorn  in  her  face. 

"  Do  you  think,"  she  said,  "  that  a  few  kisses,  a  few 
simpering  words,  can  undo  the  wrong  you  haye  done 
me  ?" 

Her  bitter  contempt  seemed  to  rouse  him  at  last;  he 
grew  very  pale,  and  the  lines  round  his  mouth  deepened 
as  he  withdrew  further  from  her. 

"  You  know  how  to  wound,  Naomi;  your  darts  shoot 
home.  I  begin  to  see  there  is  no  hope  for  me;  I  was 
foolish  enough  to  think  there  was." 

She  turned  to  him  wrathfully. 

"  Did  you  fancy  that  I  was  so  weai,  so  infirm  of  pur- 
pose, so  dead  to  my  great  injury,  so  little  gifted  with  self- 
respect,  that  when  you  met  me,  you  had  nothing  to  do 
but  offer  me  a  fine  apology,  humble  yourself  graciously, 
aud  all  would  be  as  it  was  ? — were  you  so  mad  as  to  think 
that?" 

"  I  am  afraid  I  was,"  he  replied,  humbly,  "  but  you 
have  taught  me  my  mistake." 

"  A  worm  turns  when  it  is  trodden  upon,"  she  cried. 
"  Had  I  been  really  what  your  silence  made  the  duchess 
believe  me,  then  you  would  have  in  all  probabiHty  de- 
fended me,  stood  by  me.  It  was  because  I  was  your  law- 
ful wife  that  you  had  no  word  to  say  for  me." 

"Naomi,  do  not  reproach  me  any  more;  I  can  not  bear 
it  My  own  heart  and  conscience  have  said  enough  all 
along;  I  cannot  bear  it." 

"  I  have  no  wish  to  do  so,"  she  said.  "Let  me  go;  I 
will  leave  London  to  morrow." 

"  But,  Naomi,"  he  cried,  passionately,  "  surely  you  will 
not  leave  me  again;  you  can  not,  it  would  be  too  crueL 
Where  is  my  son.  Let  me  love  him.  Your  heart  is 
harder  than  the  nether  millstone  toward  me;  surely  his 
will  not  be  so  ?  Surely  you  will  not  leave  me  with  my 
heart  bare  and  desolate  as  when  I  found  you  ?  " 

*  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  she  replied;  "your 
silence  made  me  an  outcast  from  your  heart  your  home, 
Jrour  name;  I  will  remain  where  your  silence  placed  me." 


336  IHB  duke's  secret. 

His  colorless  face  fell,  and  he  clinched  his  stroi.j  lutndg 
like  a  man  in  agony. 

"  Answer  me  at  least  a  few  questions  before  you  leave 
me,  Naomi,  in  pity  and  in  kindness.  Do  you  never 
intend  to  return  to  me  ?" 

"Never,"  she  replied.     "  I  would  sooner  die." 

*•  Have  you  never  intended  to  do  so." 

"  Never  from  the  moment  I  left,"  she  replied.  "  Noth- 
ing would  ever  make  me  consent  to  it." 

"  I  offer  you,"  he  said,  "  that  which  has  always  been 
youra;  the  whole  and  sole  love  of  my  heart.  I  offer  you 
my  whole  life  and  fortune;  everything  that  I  possess  in 
this  world  I  lay  at  your  wilL  Will  you  stay  with  me, 
Naomi  ?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  '*  I  will  not.  So  far  as  worldly  ad- 
vantages go,  I  have  had  better  offers  of  marriage  than 
even  yours.  I  have  had  none  from  any  man  whom  I 
despise  more." 

•'Say  no  more  unkind  things  to  me, Naomi — I  have 
heard  enough  to  kiU  me.  Will  you  tell  me  whether  you 
came  to  London  with  any  desire  to  see  me  again  ?" 

"  No,  I  did  not,"  she  replied;  "  I  came  to  London 
because  it  was  my  uncle's  wish,  and  if  I  had  raised  too 
man V  objections  he  would  have  been  suspicious,  naturally." 

"  Then  you  never  thought  I  should  recognize  you,"  he 
said. 

•'  No;  I  felt  quite  sure  you  would  not,"  she  replied.  "  I 
am  mucU  taller  than  I  was  when  you  left  me  cowering 
before  that  stately  lady,  your  mother — taller,  stronger, 
and  chanj^ed  altogether.  I  never  thought  that  you  would 
know  me.  I  would  never  have  returned  to  England  had 
I  thouglit  there  was  any  chance  of  such  a  thing;  I  would 
have  remained  in  America." 

*'Then  you  did  not  care  to  see  me  again,  Naomi?" 

"  No.     I  am  quite  sure  I  did  not,"  she  replied. 

"  Do  you  know,  Naomi,"  he  said,  sadly, "  when  I  heard 
the  truth  about  you,  I  was  foolish  enough  to  think  that 
it  was  love  for  me  that  had  brought  you  here." 

"You  were  mistaken,"  she  said.  " Since  the  morning 
I  left  Rood  Castle  I  have  never  had  the  least  intention  of 
returning  to  you.  I  will  remain  where  your  silence 
placed  me.** 


THE  duke's  seceet.  887 

*•  In  Heaven's  name,  what  will  become  ©f  me  ?*'  cried 
ate  duke. 

"  You  must  get  a  separation  and  marry  Lady  Valen- 
tine Arden,"  she  said. 

"  There  may  be  two  opinions  on  that  matter,"  said  a 
quiet,  low  voice,  and  looking  up  they  saw  Lady  Valentino 
Arden  standing  before  them. 

CHAPTER  LXm. 

THE    LOVE-TEST. 

"  I  HAVB  spoken  once,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  "  and  you 
were  too  much  engrossed  to  hear  me.  Miss  Glynton,  you 
made  an  observation  which  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
uncalled  for.  Lady  Valentine  Arden  is  not  to  be  given  in 
marriage  as  it  may  please  any  stranger  to  propose." 

It  was  a  most  dramatic  scene.  The  fine,  stately  figure 
and  handsome  face  of  the  duke;  the  magnificent  face  and 
figure  of  Miss  Glynton — the  rich  tint  of  the  violet  heart's- 
ease,  the  costly  trailing  laces,  the  story  told  in  her  atti- 
tude, the  story  told  in  her  face — the  love,  pain,  jeal- 
ousy and  defiance ;  tho  fair  girlish  figure  of  Lady  Valen- 
tine, her  sweet  face  flushed  with  emotion,  her  lips  quiv- 
ering with  indignation  at  what  she  considered  an  imper- 
tinence. 

There  was  no  mistake  about  it.  Lady  Valentine  loved 
the  duke  with  her  whole  heart. 

She  was  frank,  simple,  candid,  impulsive.  Her  thoughts 
generally  went  direct  from  her  heart  to  her  lips.  When 
her  eyes  fell  on  the  duke's  face,  she  knew  at  once  that 
there  was  something  vitally  wrong.  She  had  seen  noth- 
ing like  it  before;  he  looked  as  though  his  heart  had 
been  wrung.  She  did  not  stop  to  think  of  what  was 
right,  prudent,  or  imprudent.  She  only  knew  what  her 
own  heart  dictated.  She  went  up  to  him,  and  laid  her 
hand  caressingly  on  his  shoulder. 

"What  has  she  done  to  you,  San  Sebastian?"  she  asked. 
"  You  look  as  though  your  heart  was  broken." 

"It  is  broken,"  he  said. 

"That  is  the  one  you  love,  that  is  the  one  you  should 
marry,"  cried  Naomi.  "  See  how  naturally  she  goes  to 
console  you — how  her  instincts  show  her  that  you  are 
wounded !  There  can  be  no  mistake  about  the  lady's  fed" 
ings,  my  lord  duke,  whatever  may  be  yours." 


838  THE  duke's  secket. 

But  Lady  Valentine  was  not  to  be  daunted;  she  was  not 
in  the  least  degree  ashamed  of  h«r  affection  for  the  duke. 
She  looked  at  the  beautiful,  flushed  face,  and  nodded  hex 
head  gravely. 

"It  would  be  as  well  for  you,  Miss  Glynton,  as  you  call 
yourself,  to  confine  your  attention  to  your  own  feelings;  I 
am  quite  equal  to  the  manageruent  of  mine.  What  have 
you  been  doing  to  make  him  look  so  wretched  ?  I  would 
not  hurt  him — I  am  a  truer  fiiend  to  him  than  you  are." 

"  Very  Ukely,  Lady  Valentine.  I  do  not  aspire  to  the 
honor  of  his  grace's  friendship;  I  have  known  its  cost  too 
much.    I  am  quite  wilhng  to  renounce  it  in  your  favor." 

"  How  can  you  speak  in  that  way,  Miss  Glynton  ?  Nay, 
I  will  speak,  duke — why  should  I  not  ?  I  will  not  use 
that  false  name  again.  How  can  you  speak  so  coldly,  so 
cruelly,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  ?" 

"So,"  said  Naomi,  with  white  lips,  "you  know  this 
story?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  who  seemed  to  have  reck- 
lessly thrown  aside  everything  in  her  ardent  champion- 
ship of  the  duke;  "yes,  I  know  it,  but  you  shall  hear  the 
reason  why  it  was  told  to  me,  not  as  idle  gossip,  not  as 
an  excuse  that  the  duke  leads  a  life  unlike  other  men, 
away  from  the  smiles  and  love  of  women." 

"  Hush,  Valentine — say  no  more,"  cried  the  dvike,  "  it 
is  quite  useless." 

"  Speak  on,  Lady  Valentine,  if  you  will,"  cried  Naomi. 
"  I  should  like  to  know  why  the  inmost  secrets  of  the 
duke's  heart  have  been  told  to  you." 

"  Not  because  he  loved  me,"  said  the  girl,  undauntedly. 

She  drew  nearer  to  him  and  clasped  her  white  hands 
round  his  arm  with  an  air  of  defiance,  as  though  she 
would  say,  "  See,  if  one  woman  does  not  love  him  another 
does  love  him. " 

"  Not  because  he  loved  me,"  she  said.  "I  wish  he  did. 
But  because — like  the  noble  and  chivalrous  gentleman 
that  he  is — he  saw  that  I,  a  y  oung,  very  foolish,  very  ig- 
norant girl,  was  giving  the  love  of  my  heart  unawares. 
To  warn  me — to  put  me  on  my  guard;  to  show  me  that 
he  was  not  free  te  marry,  that  is  why  he  told  me  his  story; 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne." 

"  I  should  never  bear  that  title,"  said  Naomi,  quietly. 


TBB  dukk's  seobet.  339 

**It  is  yours  now,"  said  Lady  ValentiBe,  enrtly.    "  You 

can  not  help  but  bear  it." 

Tlien  the  two  riyals  looked  at  each  other  as  though  they 
would  fain  measure  each  the  strength  of  the  other. 

"  Valentine,"  said  the  duke,  "  I  am  the  sinner;  it  ia  I 
who  have  cruelly  injured  her." 

"  There  are  two  sides  to  every  question,"  said  Lady  Val- 
entine, with  a  profound  nod  of  her  pretty  head.  "  I  shall 
never  pretend  to  excuse  what  he  did,  because  it  was  inex- 
cusable. Still,  if  you  really  love  him,  you  would  soon  for- 
give him.  True  love  is  never  unforgiving;  but  if  I  spoke 
my  thoughts,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  I  believe  that  you 
are  quite  as  cruel — for  you  to  stay  from  him  for  twelve 
years,  to  keep  him  from  the  love  and  knowledge  of  his 
little  child — quite  as  cruel  in  you  as  it  was  in  him  not  to 
speak  the  word  which  would  have  cleared  you,  and  drawn 
down  his  mother's  anger  on  him.  I  do  not  believe, 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  that  you  know  what  true,  unsel- 
fish love  is;  and — " 

Naomi  opened  her  eyes  wider  still,  as  she  heard  the 
plainly  spoken  words  of  her  rival 

"  I  must  say.  Lady  Valentine,  that  you  are  a  remarkably 
frank-spoken  young  lady." 

"Nothing  but  frank  speaking  will  avail  in  your  grace's 
case,"  and  she  noticed  how  Naomi  shrunk  again  from  the 
title.  "  I  should  not  have  done  as  you  have  done,  even 
with  the  same  provocation,"  she  continued;  "I  should 
have  made  allowance  for  the  fear,  which  for  a  few  mo- 
ments paralyzed  what  was  a  true  and  noble  love.  I  should 
have  trusted  him  more,  and  have  known  by  instinct  that 
he  would  soon  make  it  all  right"  Her  face  flushed,  and 
her  eyes  brightened  as  she  went  on.  "  You  have  really 
avenged  yourself — you  have  made  him  suffer  for  twelve 
long  years,  and  you  have  spoiled  his  life." 

The  wonder  that  came  on  the  proud,  beautiful  face  was 
strange  to  see,  but  these  sharp  words  did  Naomi  more 
good  than  anything  else  could  have  done, 

"  Where  is  his  son  ?"  she  continued.  "  Even  if  your 
strained  notions  of  right  and  wrong,  honor  and  dishonor, 
bade  you  keep  him  away  from  him,  why  did  you  not  send 
his  son  to  comfort  him--do  you  not  think  that,  perhaps, 
you  have  been  just  a  little  selfish  in  keeping  the  beauty, 
(he  grace^  the  love  of  the  child,  all  to  yourself  ?" 


Z40'  "IHE  DBXE-g  »£OBET. 

She  stopped  abruptly,  for  the  yihite  pain  that  came  OTb- 
that  beautiful  face  made  her  pause;  there  was  something 
in  the  story  of  the  child  that  was  as  bitter  as  death  to  her. 

"  I  could  not  help  hearing  what  you  said  as  I  entered 
the  gallery — it  was  that  you  would  never  return  to  the 
duke,  never  be  his  wife  again;  but  that  he  must  get  a  legal 
separation  from  you,  and  then  marry  me.  I  think  those 
are  the  words  you  used." 

"  Yes,  those  are  the  words,"  replied  NaomL 

"  I  am  not  at  all  ashamed  to  say  that  I  wish  it  could  be 
so,"  said  Lady  Valentine,  with  another  nod  of  her  fair, 
charming  head.  "My  love  is  better,  greater,  more  noble, 
and  more  self-sacrificing  than  yours  could  ever  have 
been." 

**  Ah,  no,  do  not  say  that  I"  cried  Naomi,  faintly,  "  do  not 
say  til  at." 

"I  know  this  one  fact;  that  mine  would  stand  any  test, 
and  yours  has  not  even  stood  the  test  of  one  unkind  acfe.on. 
and  twelve  years  absence.  It  must  Lave  been  a  half  love 
to  begin  with." 

Then  Naomi  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  gather  herself  to- 
gether. She  looked  around  and  for  the  first  time  realized 
where  she  was;  she  arranged  the  di'ooping  heart's-ease  in 
her  dress,  and  then  looked  at  the  two  opposite  her — he 
tall,  stately,  and  handsome;  she  so  young,  fair,  and  lovely. 
She  looked  at  the  w'nito  hands  clasped  over  his  arm,  at  the 
rapt  devotion  of  the  girlish  face,  and  her  heart  smote  her. 
This  love  was  deeper  than  hers. 

"I  have  heard  enough  for  the  present,"  she  said, 
calmly.  **  I  must  go — Lady  Belle  did  not  wish  to  remain 
late;  but  before  I  go  I  must  express  my  great  displeasure. 
I  do  not  think  your  grace  should  have  told  the  secret  that 
is  as  much  mine  as  yours;  and  I  do  not  think  it  right  for 
Lady  Valentine  to  interfere  between  man  and  wife." 

"I  should  always  take  tlie  duke's  side  against  every 
one,  quite  blindly,"  she  replied.  "  I  always  think  it  takes 
a  woman  to  match  a  woman — a  man  never  can." 

"  I  want  no  one  to  take  the  duke's  part  against  me," 
she  said.  "  I  am  quite  sure  now  that  the  best  thing  will 
be  for  the  duke  to  find  some  clever  lawyer,  who  would 
discover  some  illegality  in  his  marriage,  or  some  reason 
why  it  should  be  dissolved,  and  then  make  you  happj, 
liady  Valentine." 


THE  duke's  SEGBET.  S^ 

"1  am  sure  he  would  do  that,"  murmured  the  girL 
**  You  throw  away  a  treasure  and  ask  me  to  pick  it  up, 
DucheBS  of  Castlemajne;  are  vou  as  willing  to  give  me 
_f our  son  as  you  are  to  give  your  husband  ?  " 

She  heard  a  low  cry,  that  was  like  a  moan,  come  from 
rival's  lips;  and  then  Naomi  said: 

"  I  can  bear  no  more,  I  must  go." 

"  Naomi,"  cried  the  duke,  "  when  may  I  see  you  again  ? 
I — I  must  have  news  of  my  child — I  must  see  him.  I 
see  that  you  look  tired  and  ill  to-night;  only  tell  me  a 
time,  and  I  will  be  content." 

"  I  will  write  to  you,"  she  said,  "a  few  lines  to-morrow. 
Po  not  keep  me — let  me  get  out  into  the  air,  or  I  shall 
fall  down  dead." 

Then  Lady  Valentine  unclasped  the  white  hands  that 
had  held  the  duke's  arm,  ana  vent  up  to  her  rival 

"  You  look  ill,"  she  said.  "  Come  with  me — I  will  take 
you  to  your  carriage,  and  take  your  excuses  to  the 
duchess.     I  will  tell  her  that  you  are  not  well." 

She  smiled  to  herself  as  she  saw  the  duke  kiss  his  wife's 
hand. 

CHAPTER  LXIV. 

"you   OUGHT   TO    BE  A   DUCHESS." 

Never  did  any  human  face  present  a  greater  picture 
of  perplexity  than  that  of  Naomi  the  next  morning  as 
she  sat  in  the  silence  of  her  superb  boudoir.  Whether 
it  was  pain,  sorrow,  trouble,  or  anxiety,  who  was  lo  teU  ? 
The  fair  brow  was  knitted,  the  graceful  curves  of  the 
beautiful  mouth  were  drawn,  the  fine,  clear  eyes  were 
shadowed  with  thought.  There  was  a  look  of  care  and 
pain  on  the  grand  face  that  ill  suited  its  regal  beauty. 

"I  wish,"  she  said,  to  herself,  "that  an  angel  could 
come  from  Heaven  and  tell  me  what  to  do.  I  Lave  lost 
the  guide  of  ray  own  reason  and  conscience — I  do  not 
believe  that  I  know  right  from  wrong." 

She  looked  up  as  "Mx.  Glynton  entered  the  room;  even 
in  the  midst  of  her  own  preoccupation,  it  occurred  to  her 
that  be  looked  somewhat  embarrassed  and  agitated.  He 
Went  up  to  her  and  kissed  her  forehead. 

''  I  am  glad  to  find  you  here.  Pet,"  he  said  ;  I  want  to 
talk  to  you.  You  look  very  preoccuped-  Are  you  busy, 
ms  dear,  this  morning  ?  " 


342  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  not  at  all.  I  have  no  engagemttnt^ 
my  time  is  quite  at  yoiir  disposal." 

Still  he  seemed  rather  to  avoid  than  to  hurry  the  con- 
versation. 

"It  is  a  lovely  morning,"  he  said,  " are  you  going 
out?" 

"  No,"  she  replied,  "  I  shall  remain  in-doors." 

Then,  Mr.  Glynton  abruptly  started  from  his  seat  and 
began  to  walk  up  and  down  the  room,  casting  every  now 
and  then  looks  so  expressive  of  concern  at  her,  that  she 
began  in  her  tarn  to  feel  anxious. 

"Pet,"  he  said,  suddenly,  "I  wonder  you  give  no 
thought  to  marrying." 

"  We  have  settled  all  that,"  she  said.  "  I  have  told  you 
that  I  never  shall.  There  will  be  no  marriage  or  love  for 
me.  I  shall  live  with  you  always,  and  be  as  happy  as  I 
can." 

Still  he  did  not  seem  satisfied. 

"  I  had  hoped  that  your  ideas  would  change,"  he  said. 
"I  have  something  to  tell  you,  and  I  hardly  know 
how." 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  bright  smile. 

"  Suppose,"  she  said,  "  that  I  can  guess  what  it  is,  and 
in  so  guessing  save  you  a  world  of  trouble." 

"  Ah,  my  darling,  you  are  very  bright  and  clever,  but  I 
do  not  think  that  you  can  guess  this,"  he  said. 

"  I  think  I  can,  and  I  think  that  every  one  else  in 
London  can  guess  it.  You  want  to  tell  me  that  you  have 
asked  Lady  Belle  Chalmers  to  be  your  wife,  and  you  do 
not  know  how  to  set  about  it — is  not  that  true  ?  " 

His  honest,  earnest  face,  was  filled  with  emotion. 

"  What  an  extraordinary  thing,"  he  cried.  "  That  is 
just  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  I  felt  nervous.  You  see, 
pet,  there  are  many  ways  of  looking  at  everything.  M3 
marriage,  my  dear,  may  make  some  little  difference  to 
you.  Had  you  succeeded  to  aay  whole  fortune,  you  would 
have  been  the  richest  woman  in  England.  I  do  not  know 
that  it  would  make  you  any  happier." 

"  I  am  sure  it  should  not,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  thought  a  good  deal  about  it,"  he  continued. 
"  For  some  time  I  kept  aloof  from  the  charms  and  fascina- 
tion of  Lady  Belle,  for  your  sake,  that  you  should  not  be 
4iBap|>oiQte€l  in  the  (nagnificent  inhentwce  th^t  it  seemed 


THE  duke's  secret.  S43 

to  me  I  nad  promised  you;  but — and  I  feel  as  shy  as  a 
school-boy  in  telling  you  about  it — the  fact  is,  I  can  not  re- 
sist her,  I  can  not  help  myself;  she  is  so  bright,  so  charm- 
ing, so  clever,  and  yet  so  completely  at  her  ease  with  me, 
I  can  not  bear  to  be  away  from  her,  I  did  not  know,  as 
truly  as  Heaven  hears  me  speak,  that  life  could  be  so  beau- 
tiful. I  have  enjoyed  being  a  rich  man  more  than  I  can 
tell  you,  and  I  have  thought  that  wealth  was  the  best  and 
brightest  thing  a  man  could  have,  but  I  was  mistaken — the 
love  of  this  woman  has  turned  earth  into  Heaven  for  me." 

"  I  am  so  glad,  so  glad,"  she  murmured,  and  a  mist  oi 
tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  think  every  one  ought  to  love  once  before  he  dies," 
he  continued,  thoughtfully;  "if  I  had  died  last  year,  I 
should  have  missed,  in  my  life,  the  greatest  happiness  man 
ever  knew.  Now,  pet,  I  have  been  thinking  of  you,  and 
wondering  why  a  woman  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so  charm- 
ing, should  have  set  herself  so  resolutely  against  love." 

She  looked  at  him,  half  sadly,  yet  with  a  smile  curving 
her  dainty  lips. 

**  What  makes  you  incline  to  marriage,  uncle  ?"  she 
asked. 

"  Because  I  love  happily,"  he  repHed. 

"  Can  you  imagine  what  my  answer  might  be  by  your 
own  ?"  she  said,  gently. 

"  You  love  unhappily !"  he  cried,  with  sudden  vehem- 
ence, that  startled  her.  She  had  not  expected  him  to 
find  her  quite  so  quick. 

"  I  have  done  so,"  she  replied,  "  and  now  there  wUl  be 
neither  love  nor  marriage  for  me.  Do  not  ask  me  any 
questions.  I  could  not  answer  them;  it  was  years  ago. 
If  you  love  me,  never  renew  the  subject.  Now  tell  me 
about  Lady  Belle  ?" 

"  She  has  promised  to  be  my  wife,  pet;  she  loves  me — 
positively — great  lady  as  she  is,  she  loves  me.  I  have 
not  kept  one  thing  from  her — I  have  told  her  everything 
altout  myself.  She  knows  all  about  my  family.  I  told 
her  that  you  were  my  niece,  and  not  my  daughter.  She 
seemed  very  much  astonished,  but  I  explained  to  her 
that  you  had  been  so  long  my  adopted  daughter  that  ¥i 
seemed  most  natural.  I  requested  her  not  to  speak  of  it, 
and  we  may  trust  her.  Now  what  I  have  to  look  at  is 
this — having  for  maiiy  years  looked  on  you  as  my  heiress, 


3^  THE  duke's  8ECIIET. 

I  must,  before  1  marry  myself,  make  a  liberal,  just,  hon- 
orable provision  for  you.  I  thought  of  settling  a  certain 
sum  on  you,  and  then  making  my  ■will.  I  should  settle  a 
certain  sum,  too,  on  Lady  Belle,  bo  be  hers  uncondition- 
ally, to  leave  as  she  likes  at  her  death.  If  we  have  no 
children,  the  great  bulk  of  my  fortune  "will  revert  to  you; 
if  we  have  children,  it  wiU  be  theirs.  I  thought,  pet,  of 
giving  you — "  and  then,  as  though  afraid  of  trusting  the 
very  air  round  him  with  such  a  secret,  he  bent  down  and 
whispered  to  her. 

She  started,  and  grew  pale. 

"  My  dear  uncle,  you  are  too  generoug  I"  she  said. 
"  What  an  enormous  sum  of  money  1" 

He  smiled  proudly. 

"  You  will  be  a  millionaire's  heiress  after  all,"  he  said. 
**Iam  telling  you  this  so  that  you  may  understand 
exactly  what  your  fortune  is.  Your  home  will  always 
be  with  us.  Lady  Belle  loves  you  very  dearly,  and  I 
venture  to  think  you  will  be  very  happy  with  her. 

*'  I  am  sui'e  of  that,"  said  Naomi. 

Yet  it  occurred  to  her  that  there  would  be  a  great  differ- 
ence between  being  sole  mistress  of  this  magnificent 
mansion  and  being  merely  beloved  by  its  mistress. 

"  You  will  then,  in  all  probability,  reside  altogether  in 
England,  and  very  often  in  London  ?"  she  said. 

"  Yes.  Lady  Belle  will  not  care  much  for  travehng. 
There  is  a  fine  estate  in  Surrey  to  be  sold;  it  is  called 
'Beech Hall*  now;  but  I  hope  to  buy  it,  and  rename  it 
*  Glynton  Park.'  That  will,  I  hope,  be  our  home,  pet — 
yours  and  ours." 

Then  he  kissed  her  again,  and  gave  a  great  sigh  of 
reUef. 

"  I  am  so  glad  that  it  is  over,  Naomi,"  he  said.  "  You 
do  not  know  how  I  dreaded  telling  you  this — the  prospect 
was  more  than  that  of  making  an  offer  of  marriage;  now 
I  am  the  happiest  man  in  England,  and  my  dead  sister's 
child  shall  gain,  not  lose,  by  my  happiness  Now  I  must 
go  and  tell  Lady  Belle  how  comfortably  we  have  arranged 
everything.     We  shall  be  married  in  a  few  weeks,  pet." 

" So  much  the  better,"  she  said.  "I  do  not  see  why 
you  should  wait." 

"Lady  Belle  Glynton,"  he  said  musingly.  "It  will  be 
a  good  name,  pet— one  we  little  thought  ever  would  be  in 


THE  duke's  secbet.  345 

our  family;  but  you — you  ought  to  be  a  duchess,  at  least,* 
ie  added,  bluntly. 

She  blushed  scarlet.  What  a  curious  thing  he  should 
5ay  that. 

"  I  am  COD  tent  to  be  "Naomi  Glyntoi^^she  said,  and  then, 
with  a  few  more  jdndly  and  affectionate  words,  Mr.  Glyn- 
ton  went  away. 

He  left  her  with  an  additional  care  in  her  heart,  and  a 
deeper  line  on  the  fair,  regal  brow. 

"  My  perplexities  increase,"  she  said  to  herself. 

There  was  another  discreet  little  rap  at  the  door,  and 
a  footman  entered  with  a  card.     He  held  it  out  to  her. 

"  The  lady  desired  me  to  say  that  her  business  was  im- 
perative, and  she  would  be  glad  if  you  would  see  her." 

Naomi  took  up  the  card  and  looked  at  it. 

"  I  will  see  her  here,"  she  replied,  for  the  name  on  the 
card  was  that  of  Lady  Valentine  Arden. 

CHAPTER  LXV. 

THE   STORY    OF   AN   ARTLESS   GIRL. 

Naomi's  thoughts  wandered  to  that  scene  in  the  picture- 
gallery,  to  the  handsome,  melancholy  face  of  the  duke, 
and  the  sweet  face  of  Lady  Valentine. 

"  How  she  loves  him  ?  "  thought  Naomi,  "  how  she 
loves  him !  She  placed  herself  before  him  as  though  she 
would  defend  him  from  everything  in  this  world.  It 
would  be  better  a  thousand  times  if  he  procured  a  separa- 
tion from  me  and  married  her." 

Then  she  sighed  bitterly,  as  she  said  to  herself: 

"  Was  this  the  end  of  a  life-long  love  ?  I  wish  I  knew 
my  own  heart  better.  No  giii  could  have  loved  more 
fondly,  more  deeply,  than  I  did.  I  would  have  given  my 
life  for  him  with  a  smile  in  those  days.  No  girl  was  ever 
so  cruelly  wounded,  so  scorned,  so  outraged  ?  He  calls  it 
the  cowardice  of  a  moment;  he  says  that  he  did  not  speak 
lest  he  should  be  parted  from  me;  but  how  can  I  forget? 
The  picture  is  burned  in  my  brain;  the  proud,  scornful 
woman  who  branded  me  with  her  shameful  words,  the 
handsome  young  lordling  who  stood  by,  '  waiting '  to  take 
the  brand  from  my  brow,  until  it  should  be  safe  to  do  so. 

"  And  that  proud  woman  who  scorned  me,  who  slau" 
dered  and  shamed  me — she  would  go  on  her  knees  to  me 
now  to  beg  of  me  to  be  her  son's  wife.    I  am  the  samf 


846  THE  duke's  SEOBEl?. 

Naomi  she  drove  away  in  shame  too  great  for  words; 
then  I  was  unknown,  obscure,  penniless  Naomi  Wynter; 
now  I  am  Miss  Glynton,  one  of  the  richest  heiresses  in 
England. 

"  Now  her  enemies  encompass  her,  they  triumph  over  her; 
they  boast  to  her  that  no  son  of  her  son  shall  ever  take 
the  place  of  his  father's  place;  they  boast  that  the  son  of 
her  enemy  shall  rule  in  her  son's  stead;  and  I  hold  her  in 
jny  power.  I  prayed  Heaven,  with  mad,  wild  prayers,  to 
give  that  woman  into  my  hands,  and  Heaven  has  done  so. 
Let  me  take  my  triumph  over  her.  One  word  from  me, 
and  he  goes  lonely  to  his  grave,  uncheered  either  by  love 
of  wife  or  child,  and  she  will  see  every  hope  of  her 
life  in  ruins  around  her.  Another  word  from  me,  and 
wealth  that  is  almost  fabulous,  with  a  wife  for  whom 
princes  and  peers  have  striven,  is  his  I  Which  word  shall 
I  speak  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  She  shall  drink  the  cup  she 
gave  me  to  drink,  even  to  its  dregs.  She  shaU  suflfer  every 
pain  she  made  me  suffer;  and  then — then  I  will  think 
what  word  I  shall  speak — what  I  shall  do." 

She  rose  from  her  seat,  and  began  to  pace  wearily  up 
and  down  the  magnificent  room.  Let  her  eyes  rest  wherfc 
they  would,  on  ail  sides  they  saw  nothing  but  luxury  and 
magnificence,  opulence  and  splendor  ;  her  very  soul 
seemed  to  be  oppressed  by  it  Oh,  to  stand  once  more 
by  the  white  gate  in  the  pleasant  woods  of  Rood,  and 
meet  her  lover,  believing  in  him  and  his  love  ! — to  throw 
off,  if  but  for  one  horn-,  the  weight  of  wealth  and  the 
sense  of  the  tragedy  that  had  darkened  her  hfe  ! — to  lay 
her  arms  once  more  round  Bertrand's  neck,  and  ask,  as 
she  had  done  a  hundred  times  before,  did  he  really  love 
her  with  his  whole  heart  better  than  all  the  world  bo- 
Bides  ?    How  he  had  kissed  her  as  he  answered,  "  Yes." 

Then  she  grew  impatient  with  herself  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  wanted  his  love;  when  one  has  suffered  so 
keenly,  it  is  difficult  to  know  the  real  state  of  heart  and 
mind. 

Could  she  ever  forgive  him  this  want  of  courage  which 
seemed  to  her  so  cruel,  so  base  ?  She  never  could  forgive 
it,  and  as  the  thought  lay  in  her  mind,  the  door  opened 
suddenly  and  the  Lady  Valentine  Arden  was  announced. 
She  had  no  time  to  say  whether  she  would  gee  her  oi 


*■  THE  DUKE'S  SEOBET.  S47 

not,  for  Lady  Valentine  stood  there  with  grave,  «2mous 
eyes  looking  in  her  face. 

"  You  want  me.  Lady  Valentine,"  she  said.  "  I  am  a 
your  service." 

Naomi  wondered  at  the  grave  anxiety  on  the  fair,  sweet 
face,  on  the  wistful  look  in  the  tender  violet  eyes.  The 
girl  stood  before  her,  tall,  grave,  erect,  her  dress  of  sim- 
ple black,  and  a  black  hat  with  a  dark  plume  shading  her 
face.  Naomi's  heart  was  touched  by  her  aspect;  she  did 
not  look  in  the  least  like  a  successful  or  even  a  happy 
rival;  she  looked  sad  and  sorrowful,  as  though  the  thoughts 
that  filled  her  mind  were  too  heavy  for  words. 

She  went  up  to  Naomi,  and  in  spite  of  the  slight 
resistance  took  her  hands. 

"  Yes,"  she  said,  "  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  have  some- 
thing very  special,  very  particular  that  I  wish  to  say  to 
you.  Some  people  would  have  been  afraid — ^but  I  am 
not  afraid  of  you." 

A  spirited  declaration,  considering  the  scene  which 
had  passed.  Naomi  liked  her  all  the  better  for  it.  It  in- 
terested her  at  once.  "  I  have  nothing  to  be  afraid  of. 
I  have  done  no  harm.  I  have  come  here  to  speak  for  one 
whom  I  love  a  thousand  times  better  than  I  love  my  life. 
Still  I  repeat  that  some  people  would  have  felt  shy  at 
coming  to  see  you;  you  have  so  much  in  your  favor." 

"  That  is  true,"  said  Naomi,  simply.  "  You  have  much 
to  say  to  me.  You  will  stay  some  time;  let  me  remove 
your  cloak  and  hat. " 

Lady  Valentine  thanked  her,  and  took  the  heavy  cloak 
fi'om  her  shoulders,  then  removed  the  hat  from  her  fair 
head.  She  looked  so  fair,  so  girlish,  that  Naomi  could  not 
take  her  eyes  from  her;  then  she  drew  her  to  an  easy- 
chair. 

"You  must  rest  while  you  talk  to  me,"  she  said;  "it  is 
po  much  easier  to  talk  when  one  is  quite  at  ease." 

She  placed  Lady  Valentine  in  the  crimson  lounging- 
chair,  and  then  sat  down  herself.  But  Lady  Valentine 
rose  quickly,  and  coming  over  to  her,  she  knelt  down  by 
her  side. 

"Do  not  send  me  away  from  you,"  she  cried;  "I  have 
that  to  say  to  you  which  is  heavy  on  my  heart.  Do  not 
Bend  me  away  from  you;  I  must  be  near  you;  I  must  feel 
th«t  in  some  way  you  are  m/  friend." 


348  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  I  will  not  send  you  away,"  Naomi  replied,  taking  the 
two  small,  white  hands  in  hers,  and  holding  them  in  a 
friendly  clasp.     "  I  will  hear  all  that  you  have  to  say." 

She  was  touched  by  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  jealousy, 
rivalry,  of  all  that  had  passed  between  them  in  the  picture- 
gallery,  the  young  girl  had  sought  her  out,  and  trusted 
her. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  first  about  myself,"  said  Lady  Val- 
entine. "  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  just  as  though 
you  were  my  sister.  I  will  keep  nothing  from  you,  and 
you  will  see  that  although  you  have  suffered  much,  others 
have  their  share. 

"  I  came  here  to  England  some  months  ago,  and  until 
then,  Naomi — let  me  call  you  Naomi,  it  brings  me  nearer 
to  you — until  then  I  had  spent  my  whole  life  with  my 
father,  who  is  a  great  invalid.  We  spent  the  most  quiet 
and  retired  of  lives;  he  was  not  well  enough  to  visit  or  to 
admit  visitors.  I  hardly  knew  what  society  was  like ;  as 
to  seeing  young  and  hiindsoj  le  men,  I  never  thought  of 
it. 

"  When  I  came  to  England  and  saw  the  duke  it  was 
like  a  revelation  to  me.  I  declare  to  you,"  she  added, 
with  sweet  impetuosity,  "  that  I  did  not  know  there  were 
such  men  in  the  world.  I  think  that  unconsciously  to 
myself  I  must  have  loved  him  from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
him.  The  grave,  proud  beauty  of  his  face,  the  sweetness 
of  his  temper  and  disposition,  the  grace  and  chivalry  of 
his  manner,  his  kindness  to  me,  all  took  my  heart  captive 
before  I  knew  that  I  had  a  heart,  or  that  I  could  lose 
it 

"  Before  I  knew  anything  about  it,  Naomi,  I  worshipped 
him.  K I  bad  been  brought  up  like  other  girls  I  should, 
perhaps,  be  ashamed  to  tell  you;  but  no  one  ever  talked 
to  me  about  love  and  lovers — no  one.  When  I  lived  in 
Nice  the  only  thing  that  impressed  me  was  a  picture  that 
hung  in  the  salon  of  a  lady  we  visited  there — a  beautiful 
picture  called  *  The  Martyrdom  of  San  Sebastian,'  and  the 
face  of  the  martyr  was  just  like  the  face  of  the  duke — it 
struck  me  at  once. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  when  I  began  to  love  him,  or  when 
love  of  him  became  dearer  than  life;  it  must  have  been 
from  the  moment  I  saw  him.  I  did  not  know  it,  Naomi 
X  came  to  the  duchess  almost  as  her  own  child,  and  I 


THE  duke's  secket.  849 

loved  her  at  once.  I  believe  I  am  the  only  one  in  the 
wide  world  who  has  ever  caressed  her  and  loved  her.  I 
loved  the  duke  too;  not  knowing  there  was  anything  to 
conceal,  I  concealed  nothing.  I  frankly  showed  my  pleas- 
ure and  hajDpiness  when  he  was  with  me,  my  regret  and 
pain  when  he  was  not.  I  never  cared  to  go  out  without 
him;  when  we  received  invitations  1  waited  to  see  if  he 
accepted  his.  I  loved  him  so  dearly  and  so  well  that  the 
sound  of  his  voice  brought  the  hot  color  burning  to  my 
face.  If  he  touched  my  hand  I  felt  like  a  leaf  in  the* 
wind;  if  he  gave  me  anything — a  book,  or  a  flower — X 
treasured  it  more  dearly  than  a  miser  treasures  gold. 

Ah,  Naomi,  the  one  spot  where  he  was  held  all  the 
light  and  brightness  of  the  world  to  me;  when  he  was 
away  the  world  was  one  dreary  blank.  My  heart  was  full 
of  happiness;  there  were  times  even  when  I  was  beside 
myself,  and  he  must  have  read  my  heart  like  an  open  book. 
My  face  must  have  told  him  my  delight  when  he  was  with 
me.  I  had  heard  people  say  of  him  that  he  was  a  woman 
hater,  a  man  who  cared  nothing  for  the  society  of  ladies. 
I  knew  better;  to  me  he  was  always  quiet  and  kind,  and 
I  loved  him.  Heaven  help  me  when  I  remember  how 
dearly  and  how  well.  Yet  all  this  time  he  was  only  kind 
to  me,  Naomi,  nothing  more;  kind  as  he  would  have  been 
to  a  sister  if  Heaven  had  given  him  one." 

CHAPTER  LXVL 

AN    BLOQUENT    PLEA. 

"  In  all  that  followed  I  and  I  alone  was  to  blame.  I 
know  now  that  the  duke  never  thought  of  me  but  as  the 
child  placed  under  his  mother's  care;  the  very  openness 
and  frankness  of  my  affection  threw  him  off  his  guard;  he 
laughed  when  I  told  him  I  did  not  care  to  go  to  a  ball 
without  him;  that  I  would  rather  dance  with  him  than 
with  any  one  else.  He  laughed  when  I  wanted  to  ride  or 
drive  with  him,  but  the  duchess  did  not — she  grew  graver. 
I  know  the  people  began  to  talk  about  us,  and  I  believe 
the  duchess  would  have  given  anything  if  he  would  ask 
me  to  marry  him;  but,  oh,  Naomi,  even  then  his  heart 
was  full  of  you  and  the  search  for  you.  I  do  not  know 
what  opened  his  eyes  at  last;  but  he  began  to  understand 
that  my  worship  of  him  had  in  it  all  the  tragic  elements 
of  «  woman's  love;  perhaps  the  duchess  spoke  to  hirai 


348  THE  duke's  secret. 

"  I  will  not  send  you  away,"  Naomi  replied,  taking  the 
two  small,  white  hands  in  hers,  and  holding  them  in  a 
friendly  clasp.     "  I  will  hear  all  that  you  have  to  say." 

She  was  touched  by  the  fact  that  in  spite  of  jealousy, 
rivalry,  of  all  that  had  passed  between  them  in  the  picture- 
gallery,  the  young  girl  had  sought  her  out,  and  trusted 
her. 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  first  about  myself,"  said  Lady  Val- 
entine. "  I  will  tell  you  the  whole  truth,  just  as  though 
you  were  my  sister.  I  will  keep  nothing  from  you,  and 
you  will  see  that  although  you  have  suffered  much,  others 
have  their  share. 

"  I  came  here  to  England  some  months  ago,  and  until 
then,  Naomi — let  me  call  you  Naomi,  it  brings  me  nearer 
to  you — until  then  I  had  spent  my  whole  life  with  my 
father,  who  is  a  great  invalid.  We  spent  the  most  quiet 
and  retired  of  lives ;  he  was  not  well  enough  to  visit  or  to 
admit  visitors.  I  hardly  knew  what  society  washke;  as 
to  seeing  young  and  handsojie  men,  I  never  thought  of 
it. 

"  When  I  came  to  England  and  saw  the  duke  it  was 
hke  a  revelation  to  me.  I  declare  to  you,"  she  added, 
with  sweet  impetuosity,  "  that  I  did  not  know  there  were 
such  men  in  the  world.  I  think  that  unconsciously  to 
myself  I  must  have  loved  him  from  the  first  moment  I  saw 
him.  The  grave,  proud  beauty  of  his  face,  the  sweetness 
of  his  temper  and  disposition,  the  grace  and  chivalry  of 
his  manner,  his  kindness  to  me,  all  took  my  heart  captive 
before  I  knew  that  I  had  a  heart,  or  that  I  could  lose 
it 

"  Before  I  knew  anything  about  it,  Naomi,  I  worshipped 
him.  If  I  bad  been  brought  up  like  other  girls  I  should, 
perhaps,  be  ashamed  to  tell  you;  but  no  one  ever  talked 
to  me  about  love  and  lovers — no  one.  When  I  lived  in 
Nice  the  only  thing  that  impressed  me  was  a  picture  that 
hung  in  the  salon  of  a  lady  we  visited  there — a  beautiful 
picture  called  'The  Martyrdom  of  San  Sebastian,'  and  the 
face  of  the  martyr  was  just  like  the  face  of  the  duke — it 
struck  me  at  once, 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  when  I  began  to  love  him,  or  when 
love  of  him  became  dearer  than  life ;  it  must  have  been 
from  the  moment  I  saw  him.  I  did  not  know  it,  Naomi 
X  came  to  the  duchess  almost  as  her  own  child,  and  I 


THE  duke's  seceet.  349 

loved  her  at  once.  I  believe  I  am  the  only  one  in  the 
wide  world  who  has  ever  caressed  her  and  loved  Ler.  I 
loved  the  duke  too;  not  linowing  there  was  anytLing  to 
conceal,  I  concealed  nothing.  I  frankly  showed  iny  pleas- 
ure and  happiness  when  he  was  with  me,  my  regret  and 
pain  when  he  was  not.  I  never  cared  to  go  out  without 
him;  when  we  received  invitations  1  waited  to  see  if  he 
accepted  his.  I  loved  him  so  dearly  and  so  well  that  the 
sound  of  his  voice  brought  the  hot  color  burning  to  my 
face.  If  he  touched  my  hand  I  felt  like  a  leaf  in  the 
wind;  if  he  gave  me  anything — a  book,  or  a  flower — I 
treasured  it  more  dearly  than  a  miser  treasures  gold. 

Ah,  Naomi,  the  one  spot  where  he  was  held  all  the 
light  and  brightness  of  the  world  to  me;  when  he  was 
away  the  world  was  one  dreary  blank.  My  heart  was  full 
of  happiness;  there  were  times  even  when  I  was  beside 
myself,  and  he  must  have  read  my  heart  Uke  an  open  book. 
My  face  must  have  told  him  my  delight  when  he  was  with 
me.  I  had  heard  people  say  of  him  that  he  was  a  woman 
hater,  a  man  who  cared  nothing  for  the  society  of  ladies. 
I  knew  better;  to  me  he  was  always  quiet  and  kind,  and 
I  loved  him.  Heaven  help  me  when  I  remember  how 
dearly  and  how  well.  Yet  all  this  time  he  was  only  kind 
to  me,  Naomi,  nothing  more;  kind  as  he  would  iiave  beeu 
to  a  sister  if  Heaven  had  given  him  one." 

CHAPTER  LXVL 

AN    ILOQUENT    PLEA. 

**  In  all  that  followed  I  and  I  alone  was  to  blame.  I 
know  now  that  the  duke  never  thought  of  me  but  as  the 
child  placed  under  his  mother's  care ;  the  very  openness 
and  frankness  of  my  affection  threw  him  off  his  guard;  he 
laughed  when  I  told  him  I  did  not  care  to  go  to  a  ball 
without  him;  that  I  would  rather  dance  with  him  than 
with  any  one  else.  He  laughed  when  I  wanted  to  ride  or 
drive  with  him,  but  the  duchess  did  not — she  grew  graver. 
I  know  the  people  began  to  talk  about  us,  and  I  believe 
the  duchess  would  have  given  anything  if  he  would  ask 
me  to  marry  him;  but,  oh,  Naomi,  even  then  his  heart 
was  full  of  you  and  the  search  for  you.  I  do  not  know 
what  opened  his  eyes  at  last;  but  he  began  to  understand 
that  my  worship  of  him  had  in  it  all  the  tragic  elements 
of  *  woman's  love;  perhaps  the  duchess  spoke  to  lami 


B50  THE  duke's  SECREIL 

perhaps  some  of  the  many  rumors  about  ub  i-eached  himj 
tor  some  days  be  was  very  quiet  and  grave ;  then  he  told 
me  all  the  story  of  his  love  for  you,  of  his  marriage,  and 
all  that  followed.  Naomi,  I  woiild  have  given  my  Hfe  tc 
be  loved  as  he  loved  you.    I  would  have  died  for  it. 

"  I  must  tell  you  all/'  she  continued.  "  You  had  been 
twelve  years  away  from  him;  you  had  given  him  no  proof 
that  you  were  Hving;  I  loved  him  with  all  my  heart,  and  J 
clung  to  him,  weeping  in  despair  when  I  knew  that  between 
him  and  me  was  the  barrier  of  a  wife  and  child.  He  told 
me  how  long  he  had  looked  for  you,  and  how  long  in  vain; 
he  hardly  thought  you  were  living;  but  we  agreed  that  if 
no  news  ever  •suae  of  or  from  you  in  the  time  to  come,  we 
would  after  a  certainty  think  of  e£ich  other.  I  do  not 
think — and  I  speak  the  words  with  sorrow — I  do  not  think 
he  was  so  much  in  love  with  me  as  he  was  sorry  for  me. 
All  the  great  love  of  his  soul  was  given  to  you. 

"  Ah,  Naomi,  you  would  know  him  better,  and  love  him 
better,  if  you  could  have  seen  how  gentle  and  kind  he  was 
to  me.  Be  sure  my  humiliation  was  greater  almost  than 
I  could  bear,  for  I  knew  that  he  was  telling  me  a  story 
to  show  me  that  I  must  not  love  him.  While  hfe  lasts  I 
Bhall  never  forget  his  promise  to  do  all  I  could  for  him. 
All  hope  died  in  my  heart  from  that  hour.  I  said  nothing; 
1  did  my  best.  I  tried  always  to  be  bright  and  cheerfiD; 
to  be  hopeful  when  I  talked  to  him;  but  the  wound  in  my 
heart  never  healed,  and  never  will.  Then,  Naomi,  you 
came  upon  the  scene.  If  I  had  known  that  you  were  Ber- 
trand's  wife,  I  would  have  trampled  self  under  foot,  and 
have  been  the  first  to  welcome  you  for  his  dear  sake;  but 
I  did  not  know.  I  saw  that  he  was  attracted  by  you  more 
than  I  had  ever  seen  him  attracted  by  another,  and  I  hated 
you  for  it.  I  was  madly  jealous  of  you.  "What  I  suffered 
when  he  gave  you  the  beautiful  eucharist  lily  I  had  saved 
for  him,  no  words  can  ever  tell.  I  was  jealous  of  you,  and 
I  hated  you,"  she  added,  with  a  hot  flush. 

"  I  said  to  myself,  over  and  over  again,  that  to  his  own 
lawful  wife  I  could  give  him,  and  let  him  go,  blessing 
him,  but  not  to  a  stranger  like  you.  Naomi,  the  night 
you  wore  the  dress  like  the  eudharist  lily,  I  could  have 
slain  you — I  was  mad  with  jealousy.  The  day  that  you 
were  on  the  river  with  him  I  hated  you  with  intense 
bfttred— J  was  mad   with  jealousy   and  a  defk^  lo| 


THE  DTTEE'S  S10BE&  851 

▼engeanoe.    I  spoke  to  the  duke  about  yon;  my  heart 

was  core  amd  heavy;  and  he  told  me  you  were  like  his  lost 
wife,  Naomi;  neither  of  us  ever  dreamed  that  there  was 
the  faintest  possibility  of  your  being  Naomi;  we  never 
thought  of  it  but  as  a  chance  resemblance. 

"  I  can  not  tell  you  what  I  suffered  when  I  saw  he  grew 
more  and  more  interested  in  you.  I  told  him  the  jealous 
pain  that  made  my  heart  ache.  He  talked  to  me  kindly, 
and  made  me  promise  to  be  good.  You  know  the  rest- 
how  the  man  who  has  been  for  so  long  tracing  you 
brought  him  news  of  you  at  last.  I  shall  never  forget  the 
moment  in  which  he  sent  the  folded  card  to  me  and  I  read 
CO  it,  '  Michael  Droski — with  news.* 

**  The  wonderful  news  came  to  him  that  his  wife  waa 
living,  was  even  then  under  his  roof — was  even  then  one 
of  the  most  popular,  and  fashionable,  and  beautiful  women 
in  London. 

"  He  was  stunned,  NaomL  He  could  not  believe  it — 
he  could  not  realize  it  He  went  to  look  at  you,  and  came 
back  to  tell  me  it  could  not  be.  He  spoke  to  you,  and 
came  to  tell  me  that  he  could  not  believe  it.  Then  it 
was  proved  true.  But,  oh,  Naomi,  how  cruel  you  were 
to  him — how  you  crushed  him  with  your  bitter  words. 
Tou,  who  pretend  to  love,  or  have  loved  him  so  well,  how 
could  you  refuse  the  pleading  of  his  voice  and  his  face  ?* 

"He  has  injured  me  more  cruelly  than  any  man  has  in- 
jured the  wife  he  pretends  to  love." 

"  If  he  had  plunged  a  dagger  in  my  heart  I  would  have 
forgiven  him;  if  he  had  given  me  poison,  if  he  had 
trampled  on  me — ^his  heel  on  my  face,  I  would  have  for- 
given him." 

"  That  is  serviHty — not  love,"  cried  Naomi. 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  You  are  his  wife;  you  have 
•very  claim  on  him,  but  my  love  is  truer  and  deeper  than 
yours  has  ever  been." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Naomi. 

"  But  I  know  it,"  rephed  Lady  Valentine,  dauntlessly; 
"  do  you  think  that  if  I  were  in  your  place  I  should  re- 
fuse to  forgive  him  ?  I  tell  you  this,  no  matter  how  greatly 
he  had  injured  me,  I  should  forgive  him  if  he  asked  me 
to." 

Naomi  looked  into  the  fair  flushed  fac9,  her  beautiful 
iaee  foil  of  disquiet 


852  TBE  Dt7EE*S  SEOBSI^ 

"Tell  me.  Lady  Valentine,"  she  said,  "if  we  conld 
change  places — if  he  had  left  you  branded  with  shame 
and  disgrace;  if  he  had  refused  to  speak  the  one  word 
which  alone  could  clear  you  from  the  stigma  of  shame — 
would  you  forgive  him  ?  " 

She  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied;  "  if  I  were  in  your  place  now,  I 
would  forgive  him.  I  love  him  with  deeper,  truer  love 
than  yours.  If  he  killed  me  I  would  smile  on  him  in 
dying — I  would  forgive  and  bless  him  in  my  last  "breath." 

"You  love  him,"  indeed,"  said  Naomi,  with  involun- 
taxy  admiration. 

"  Yes;  it  is  that  very  love  that  brings  me  here  to  plead 
for  him;  it  is  harder  to  plead  for  him  than  it  would  be 
to  die  for  him.  K  I,  who  love  him  better  than  my  life, 
can  come  to  you  and  ask  you  to  restore  him  to  your  love 
— ask  you  to  go  back  to  him — if  I  can  so  far  trample  self 
under  foot,  surely  you,  after  twelve  long  years  of  silent 
resentment —  surely  you  may  forgive  a  wrong  from  which 
he  has  suffered  quite  as  much  as  you  have  done." 

One  noble  mind  paid  involuntary  homage  to  anothert 

"  You  are  a  brave  girl,"  said  Naomi,  "  but  you  do  no. 
understand  how  that  terrible  wrong  has  corroded  my 
heart — all  that  was  kind  and  gentle  in  me  seems  to  have 
died  a  violent  death." 

"  It  is  but  fancy,"  said  Lady  Valentine.  "  See  I  am 
your  rival,  yet  how  kind  you  are  to  me.  Who  could  have 
believed  that  I  would  be  kneeling  by  your  side,  holding 
your  hands  and  feeUng  my  heart  drawn  to  you? 
Who  could  have  foreseen  that  ?  Why  do  you  call  your- 
self cold  and  unkind  ?  Such  a  face  as  yours  never  hid  a 
a  cold  heart  yet" 

=*That  proud,  insolent  woman.  Lady  Valentine — th« 
words  she  said  to  me  burned  themselves  on  my  heart  and 
brow." 

"  All  that  is  another  thing.  I  am  not  asking  you  to 
forgive  the  duchess.  I  can  imagine  that  you  feel  very 
angry  with  her;  it  is  for  your  husband  I  plead.  He  gave 
you  the  love  of  his  life,  he  gave  you  his  name,  his  fortune, 
everything  that  he  had,  and  at  the  critical  moment  of 
your  life  he  failed  you.  Not  from  cowardice,  I  shall 
never  hold  that  opinion,  but  because  he  was  afraid  of 
losing  you  altogeihfu:  if  he  told  the  truth.    S«e  all  thai 


tHE  duke's  seobet;  353 

%/b  did  to  remedy  his  mistake;  tsee  all  thai  he  has  done 
iiuce;  think  what  remorse,  what  sorrow  he  has  suffered 
•ver  since,  and  can  you  hesitate  for  a  moment  about 
forgiving  him  ?  Ah,  if  it  were  but  me,  I  would  run  to 
him,  I  would  go  with  outstretched  arms,  and  bury  my 
anger,  my  resentment,  in  the  sweetest  kiss  I  could  give 
him.  As  for  the  duchess,  be  just,  Naomi;  perhaps  had  you 
or  I  been  Duchess  of  Castlemayne,  we  might,  under  the 
aame  circumstances,  have  done  the  same  thing.  She  is 
proud,  but  if  you  knew  her  you  would  love  her!  Ah! 
Naomi,  you  are  more  beautiful,  more  gifted,  much  wiser 
than  lam;  do  not  let  me  outdo  you  in  love.  lam  so 
anxious  to  see  Bertrand  happy,  that  if,  by  the  sacrifice  of 
my  life,  I  could  atone  to  you  for  the  wrong  done,  and 
"win  his  forgiveness,  I  would  die  now  and  here.  It 
"would  be  easier  for  me  to  die  than  live,"  she  continued. 
*'I  can  not  realize  what  my  life  would  be  without 
iiim." 

"  Yet  you  come  here  and  ask  me  to  forgive  him  and  go 
back  to  him.  Do  you  know  that  if  I  refuse  and  persist 
in  my  refusal,  he  could  perhaps  in  time  get  a  divorce  from 
me  and  marry  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know  it;  but  I  know  also  you  will  not  do  it;  I 
know  also  that  my  love  for  him  is  so  great  that  I  prefer  hi« 
happiness  to  mine.  I  would  a  thousand  times  see  him 
happy  than  be  happy  myself;  besides,  you  forget,  Naomi 
—his  son — you  forget  his  son." 

**  I  do  not  forget  him — I  could  not  forget  him  if  I  would/* 
■he  replied. 

Lady  Valentine  rose  from  her  knees  and  stood  before 
her,  erect,  with  a  dignity  new  to  her,  her  face  shining  with 
light  and  emotion. 

"  You  are  a  woman,  Naomi,"  she  said,  "  and  a  beautiful 
woman  too;  but  you  have  no  true  woman's  heart  if  you 
condemn  the  man  you  love  to  be  a  lonely,  blighted,  misera- 
ble man;  you  can  have  no  idea  of  the  depth  and  truth  of 
love  unless  you  understand  forgiveness.  I  should  call  such 
love  as  yours  selfishness,  because  you  think  more  of  your- 
self than  of  him.  Even  the  old  proverb  rebukes  you — '  To 
err  is  human,  to  forgive  divine.'  If  you  have  in  your  love 
none  of  that  divine  element  which  leads  men  to  mercy, 
then — why  then,  I  think  Duke  Bertrand  had  far  better 
i^Mid  his  life  in  loneliness  and  exile  than  spend  it  with 


854  THE  DUKE'S  SEOBKT.  ■    ' 

you.  Surely  the  worst  than  can  befall  a  man  is  to  liATe 
for  his  wife  a  woman  without  a  heart.  If  you  can  not  for- 
give, you  have  no  heart — you  know  nothing  of  the  divine 
element  of  love.  You — though  the  words  sound  hard  they 
are  true — you  do  not  deserve  heaven;  for  those  who  can  not 
forgive  the  trespasses  of  others  do  not  deserve  to  be  for- 
given themselves." 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  ?"  whispered  Naomi,  in 
a  low  voice,     "  Tell  me  and  I  will  do  it." 

"  Will  you  ?  Then  may  Heaven  bless  you  I  Let  m« 
take  that  rose  you  have  in  your  dress  to  the  duke  and 
tell  him  that  you  are  waiting  to  see  him.     May  I  ?" 

And  for  an  answer  Naomi  laid  the  rose  in  her  hands,    j 

CHAPTER   LXVn. 

rORGIVENKSS. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure,  Valentine  ?"  repeated  the  duko, 
over  and  c  <rer  again.  "  You  have  not  fancied  it  o? 
dreamed  it  ?  It  is  no  good-natured  ruse  to  draw  me  into 
her  presence  ?  You  are  sure  that  she  sent  me  this  rose 
from  her  own  self,  and  said  she  was  waiting  for  me !" 

"Oh,  man  of  little  faith,"  laughed  Valentine;  and  hfl 
did  not  notice  how  white  were  the  lips  that  laughed. 
"  How  must  I  convince  you  ?  I  have  told  you  so  many 
times  over.  She  is  now  in  her  own  boudoir,  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  rooms  in  that  superb  house;  she  looks  ae 
beautiful  as  an  empress.  She  wears  a  morning  dress  oi 
white  and  blue;  her  hair  is  arranged  with  less  artistic 
taste,  but  to  my  thinking,  with  greater  elegance  than 
ever.  I  can  even  tell  you  what  she  is  doing — she  stands 
by  the  window,  thinking  of  all  I  have  said  to  her,  and 
waiting  for  you." 

"  You  must  be  a  witch,  Valentine,"  he  said,  with  great 
emotion. 

"  If  I  were,  I  should  soon  fly  away,"  she  said.  "  Now, 
Bertrand,  go  at  once — lose  no  time.  I  am  sure  she  will 
forgive  you,  and  all  will  be  well  again.  She  has  a  noble 
soul,  but  she  has  been  cruelly  wounded." 

"  If  she  does  forgive  me  and  all  goes  well,  I  shall  owe 
my  happiness  to  you,"  he  said. 

**  Never  mind,  my  dear,  to  whom  you  owe  it,  provided 
•nly  that  it  comes,"  she  said.    "  Now  go  thi«  moniAat) 


THE  DUKES'S  SECRET.  355 

tatd  a  cab  and  drive  to  Brook  House — ^you  will  not  be 
long  going." 

She  fastened  the  rose  to  his  coai,  and  he  failed  to  see 
how  the  little  hands  trembled.  Yet  some  sense  of  the 
effort  the  girl  was  making  must  have  come  to  him,  for 
when  he  reached  the  door  he  turned  back  to  her  and,  going 
to  her,  kissed  her  forehead,  looking  anxiously  in  the 
sweet  face. 

"  You  have  been  to  see  her — you  have  done  all  this  for 
me,  Valentine — and  why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  love  you,  and  I  want  to  see  you  happy," 
she  rephed.  "  You  ought  to  fly  to  Brook  House,  Bertrand, 
instead  of  wasting  precious  moments  like  this." 

He  went,  and  then  Lady  Valentine  went  to  her  ovf^ 
room,  giving  her  maid  orders  that  she  was  not  to  be 
disturbed.  If  Duke  Bertrand  could  have  seen  her  weep- 
ing there  he  would  have  known  what  the  sacrifice  cost  her. 

He  went  direct  to  Brook  House.  Everything  was  just 
as  Lady  Valentine  had  foretold.  He  was  shown  to  Naomi's 
boudoir.  She  was  there,  looking  beautiful  enough  to 
bewilder  any  one;  her  golden  hair  loosened  and  lying  in 
a  rich,  great  wave  on  her  shoulders.  She  was  standing 
by  the  window,  and  when  he  entered  the  room  she  met 
him  face  to  face.  Her  eyes  fell  first  on  the  flower  she  had 
sent  him — what  a  faithful  messenger  Valentine  was,  even 
though  the  message  she  took  was  so  much  against  her 
own  interest. 

"  Naomi,"  said  the  duke — his  face  flushed,  his  voice 
trembling  with  emotion,  the  glamor  of  the  old  love  seem- 
ing to  sweep  over  him  again;  the  past  years,  with  their 
long  burden  of  waiting  and  sorrow,  fell  from  him.  This 
was  the  girl- wife  he  loved  with  such  blind  passion.  He 
could  have  fancied  himself  away  with  her  on  the  pleasant 
lands  of  Rood.  "  Naomi,  you  are  willing  to  see  me,"  he 
cried;  and  then  he  stopped  in  wonder.  All  the  pride  and 
defiance  had  died  f»-om  her  face;  she  was  the  simple  lov- 
ing Naomi  of  old  again.  She  seemed  to  take  up  the 
broken  thread  of  her  life  from  where  he  had  left  her, 
kneeling  at  his  mother's  feet.  She  opened  her  arma  with 
a  cry  that  he  never  forgot. 

"  Oh,  Bertrand,  how  could  you  do  it — ^how  could  j<M 
— iow  could  you— how  could  you  ?  " 


356  tHE  duke's  8E0BET. 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms  and  clasped  her  to  his  heart, 
while  she  sobbed  out  the  words  on  his  breast. 

"How  could  I,  my  darling,  my  sweet  wife?  That  is 
the  very  question  I  have  been  asking  myself  ever  since — 
how  could  I  ?  I  do  not  know.  I  was  mad  with  the  fear 
of  losing  you.  My  mother  to  me  even  then  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  aristocratic  power.  My  darling,  if  I 
Binned,  Heaven  only  knows  how  I  have  suflfered.  No  one 
can  tell,  no  words  can  tell.  I  would  give  my  very  life  to 
undo  it.  After  all  these  years  of  sorrow  and  pain  have 
you  no  word  of  forgiveness  for  me  ?" 

"  I  never  intended,  I  nevej  thought  of  forgiveness,"  she 
replied.  "  It  is  Lady  Valentine  that  has  made  me  see 
that  I  must  forgive  if  I  would  be  forgiven.  The  words 
seem  hard  to  say,  Bertrand,  when  for  twelve  long  years  I 
have  brooded  in  silence  over  my  wrongs." 

"  Naomi,  have  you  any  of  the  old  love  left  for  me  in 
your  heart?"  he  asked;  is  there  one  thing  that  pleads 
for  me  ?  Ah,  yes,  surely  the  face  and  the  voice  of  the 
child  that  calls  me  father,  surely  that  will  not  plead  to  you 
in  vain." 

The  golden  head  sunk  lower  on  his  breast. 

"  Twelve  long  years  ago,"  he  said.  "  I  have  loved  you, 
longed  for  you,  missed  you,  sorrowed  for  you,  searched 
for  you.  Ah,  my  darling,  perhaps  it  is  all  on  my  side,  not 
on  yours.  Naomi,  neither  my  rank  nor  wealth  have 
brought  me  joy.  I  have  been  a  mystery  to  every  one,  and 
a  misery  to  myself;  do  you  not  think  I  have  suifered  long 
enough — more  than  you  ?  You  have  had  the  love  of  our 
boy  to  console  you;  you  have  not  been  desolate  at  heart 
as  I  have  been.  Naomi,  does  he  live,  this  son  of  mine,  of 
whom  you  have  never  spoken  to  me  yet  ?  Say,  my  dar- 
ling, that  you  forgive  me,  and  that  you  will  tell  me  about 
my  son. 

For  some  few  minutes  there  was  silence,  unbroken  ex- 
cept by  her  bitter  sobs,  and  it  was  the  first  time  that  he 
had  beaten  down  the  last  of  the  barriers  raised  in  her 
heart  against  him;  he  did  not  try  to  check  the  bitter  weep- 
ing; he  soothed  the  golden  head;  he  caressed  the  fair, 
shining  hair  with  his  hands  and  his  lips,  murmuring  sweet 
and  loving  words,  such  as  he  had  whispered  years  ago. 
Bq^  ioif  the  pasnionate  fit  of  weeping,  but  tov  this  tendtr 


THE  duke's  segbbt.  167 

drdamy  comfort  he  gave  her  who  knows  how  this  storj 
would  have  ended  ?     His  kindness  conquered  her. 

"  Thank  Heaven,  my  darling  wife,"  he  said,  '*  that  if  you 
have  any  tears  to  shed  you  can  shed  them  here." 

He  tightened  the  clasp  of  his  arm  round  her;  he  whis- 
pered such  loving  words  to  her  that  no  woman  could  listen 
to  them  unmoved.  The  bitter  sobs  ceased,  the  passionate 
teai-8  fell  no  longer;  she  lay  in  his  arms  tired,  yet  at  rest, 
like  a  wearied  child. 

"  My  wife,  my  darling,  have  you  forgiven  me  ?"  he 
asks.  "Say  that  one  word  to  me.  It  was  a  grievous 
wrong — a  deadly  injury,  but  I  will  atone  as  no  man  ever 
atoned  before.  Whisper  to  me  one  word  of  pardon,  and 
I  shall  be  the  happiest  man  in  the  world." 

She  thought  of  Valentine's  words,  of  the  light  in  her 
fair  face,  the  flash  in  her  violet  eyes,  the  true,  firm  voice 
that  had  at  first  persuaded  her,  then  told  her  pitiless 
truths;  surely  her  love  was  not  less  noble  than  this  girl's, 
who  declared  that  even  if  he  slew  her  she  would  forgive 
him  and  bless  him  in  dying. 

She  looked  up  into  his  face. 

"  Do  you  know,"  she  said,  solemnly,  "  that  there  is  one 
who  loves  you  with  a  deeper  and  truer  love  than  mine  ?" 

"  I  will  not  believe  it,"  he  replied.  "  It  is  not  now  a 
question  of  any  other  love,  but  entirely  of  your  own.  I 
want  your  pardon.     Will  you  give  it  to  me,  Naomi  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  whispered.  "  I  never  intended  to  forgive 
you.  Just  as  you  had  cast  me  out  from  your  life,  J 
intended  to  remain  outside  it.  I  never  meant  that  you 
should  recognize  me  or  claim  me  again;  but  I  forgive  you, 
Bertrand,  and  the  past  shall  be  buried  between  us." 

His  eyes  were  dim  with  tears.  Heaven  had  been  very 
good  to  him  after  all.  He  had  made  the  most  terrible 
mistake  a  man  could  make  in  life,  and  now  it  was  all  hap* 
pily  ended. 

The  ormolu  clock  struck  one  before  they  remembered 
time  was  passing,     Naomi  looked  up  in  dismay. 

"  Why,  Bertrand,  you  have  been  here  two  hours,  and  it 
does  not  seem  two  minutes!"  she  cried.  "  It  was  always 
so — hours  flew  like  minutes  when  we  were  together,  and 
they  lengthened  into  days  when  we  were  apart." 

"May  it  always  be  so,"  cried  the  duke.  "Oh,  Naomi, 
•U  the  old  loTe  for  jou  comes  back  to  mj  heart    Do  you 


368  THP.  duke's  secret. 

remember  how  I  used  to  watch  for  you  and  wait  for  you  t 
I  begin  to  wonder  how  I  have  Hved  through  all  these 
long  years  without  you." 

And  seeing  that  there  was  great  danger  of  the  love- 
making  coming  over  again,  Naomi  said  : 

"  My  uncle  will  be  at  home  at  two  for  luncheon. " 

"May  I  stay  and  join  you  ?"  he  asked. 

*'  No."  And  she  looked  up  at  him  with  serious,  loving 
eyes.  "  No,  not  to-day,  Bertrand.  I  am  not  so  cold  nor 
BO  heartless  as  you  think.  I  have  gone  through  as  much 
as  I  can  bear  to-day — just  as  much." 

"  But,  Naomi,  must  I  leave  you  in  suspense  ?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  that  would  •  be  kind  either.  Come  back  this 
evening.  I  will  give  up  all  my  engagements.  I  will  stay 
at  home  to  receive  you;  and  I  will  tell  you  my  story  since 
we  parted." 

"  You  win  come  back  to  me,  Naomi  ?"  he  said,  wistfully. 

"Yes,  I  will  come  back,"  she  replied.  "Come  this 
evening,  and  I  will  arrange  it  all;  but  go  now,  because  I 
«an  not  bear  any  more." 

And  with  that  he  was  fain  to  be  eontent. 

CHAPTER   LXVin. 

▲  NOBLE  NATURE  AND  A  NOBLE  LOVE. 

How  IMPATIENTLY  shc  had  waited  through  the  hours  of 
the  day,  how  long  they  had  seemed  to  her;  yet  as  they 
passed  she  could  come  to  no  decision  as  to  what  she 
should  do.  She  never  thought  that  events  would  take 
this  turn.  She  had  never  had  the  faintest  intention  of 
going  back  to  the  duke.  When  she  left  England  it  was 
forever,  she  believed,  and  she  did  her  honest  best  to  for- 
get even  the  name  of  the  man  whom  she  had  loved  so 
much,  and  who  had  caused  her  so  much  unhappiness.  In 
the  new  world  no  one  knew  anything  of  her;  she  would 
never  be  pained  or  tortured  by  hearing  his  name,  by 
hearing  any  allusion  to  him.  She  had  left  it  all  behind, 
even  as  she  had  left  the  white  cliffs  of  England  behind 
her.  She  alone  knew  how  many  years  it  had  taken  her 
to  beat  down  her  love,  to  trample  it  under  her  feet,  to 
live  without  it,  to  lose  the  sting  of  its  soitow  and  shame. 
She  had  done  hard  battle  with  time,  because  she  loved 
him  so  well;  and  he  crushed  that  love  out  of  her  heart; 
be  had  crushed  much  more  with  it;  much  of  her  faith  in 


THE  duke's  secret.  36d 

liuinan  nature,  of  her  kindDess  of  lieart.  One  can  not 
kill  a  great  love  without  destroying  the  best  part  of  one's 
nature  with  it. 

Then,  when  she  believed  her  love  to  be  dead,  Naomi 
looked  her  life  in  the  face.  She  could  never  marry ;  true 
that  if  she  chose  to  appeal  to  the  law  she  might  do  so, 
perhaps  with  a  chance  of  success,  but  that  she  would 
never  do;  that  was  not  what  she  wanted;  she  had  had 
quite  enough  of  love,  lovers  and  marriage;  she  wanted  no 
more. 

Looking  at  her  life  as  it  lay  before  her,  she  saw  what  it 
would  be  Uke,  and  embraced  it.  She  would  have  every- 
thing that  money  could  buy — magnificence,  wealth,  luxury, 
grandeur,  were  all  spread  before  her;  she  could  have  any- 
thing and  everything  her  heart  desired ;  she  could  have 
dresses  and  jewels  fit  for  a  queen;  she  could  travel;  she 
coidd  see  the  greatest  wonders  of  the  world,  but  she  could 
call  no  man  husband;  she  could  have  no  child  of  her  own; 
she  would  be  able  to  help  the  poor,  the  sick,  the  miser- 
able; she  could  make  the  widows  sing  for  joy;  she  could 
shield  the  orphan  and  the  friendless;  she  could  do  any- 
thing except  love  or  marry ;  she  took  her  life  as  it  was, 
accepted  her  fate,  and  made  the  best  of  it. 

She  was  far  too  noble  a  woman  to  be  content  with  the 
pleasures  of  the  world.  No  one  knew  the  amount  of  good 
she  did  in  her  quiet,  graceful,  unobtrusiv  manner.  There 
was  no  great  ceremony;  she  built  no  church,  she  founded 
no  great  public  buildings,  but  she  saved  many  a  family 
from  utter  ruin  and  destitution. 

In  that  far-off  Am3rican  city  where  she  had  dwelt  so 
long  the  very  hearts  of  the  people  blessed  her;  there 
Were  hundreds  who  owed  the  happiness  of  their  lives  to 
her,  and  the  blessing  of  the  people  is  the  highest  crown 
man  or  woman  can  wear. 

Then  came  her  uncle's  natural  desire  to  travel,  to  return 
to  his  native  land,  where  his  heart  reaUy  was.  It  was  a  great 
pleasure  to  her  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  world,  its  fair 
cities  and  places.  The  more  she  traveled  the  more  her 
mind  opened,  the  deeper  became  the  forgetfulness  of  the 
past  which  had  so  dark  a  background  for  her. 

"When  Hardress  Glynton  spoke  of  going  to  England, 
for  a  few  minutes  she  faltered;  she  knew  that  she  had  t« 
express  but  one  idea,  utter  one  word,  and  he  would  cheai* 


360  THE  DTTKE*S  SECRET. 

fully  renounce  that  wish.  But  why  should  it  be  ?  Sht 
might  live  in  London  fifty  years,  and  never  see  those  she 
dreaded  to  see;  they  Hved  in  one  world,  she  quite  in  an- 
other; they  need  never  meet. 

But  when  Brook  House  was  finished  she  saw  her  mis; 
take.  They  were  received  iu  the  very  first  circles;  dukes 
and  duchesses  held  out  friendly  hands  to  them,  peers  and 
princes  were  pleased  to  see  them.  It  was  not  only  the  vaat 
wealth  of  the  milUonaii*e,  but  the  marvelous  beauty  of  the 
supposed  daughter  that  brought  them  so  prominently 
into  notice.  She  who  had  thought  never  to  hear  his 
name  again,  found  herself  now  living  among  his  friends 
and  acquaintances,  visiting  the  same  houses  he  visited, 
going  to  the  same  entertainments;  and  she  saw  that  the 
time  must  come  when  she  must  meet  him.  It  did  not 
matter;  how  should  it?  Her  love  was  all  dead.  She 
could  meet  him  without  agitation,  without  the  awakening 
of  the  old  love  that  was  so  surely  dead,  so  surely  slain 
and  buried  out  of  sight.  Yet  as  the  days  passed  on  and 
she  heard  him  spoken  of  her  opinion  of  him  changed. 

"  A  women-hater,"  they  called  him,  this  gallant  young 
lover  of  hers,  whose  face  she  remembered  so  full  of  love 
and  tenderness,  whose  eyes  had  drunk  in  her  fair  young 
beauty  as  twilight  drinks  in  dew. 

A  woman-hater !  He  must  have  changed  marvelously 
since  then.  She  heard  him  spoken  of  constantly  as  one 
who  shunned  the  society  of  ladies,  who  went  alone  on  his 
way  through  hfe,  who  never  asked  for  the  smile  of  any 
woman,  or  for  a  gracious  word.  She  heard  that  in  spite 
of  his  brilliant  position,  his  wealth,  his  rank,  he  was  always 
melancholy,  always  sad. 

And  then  as  she  was  drawn  more  and  more  into  the 
whirlpool  of  fashionable  life,  she  heard  more  of  the  duch- 
ess, of  her  bitter  disappointment  because  her  son  seemed 
averse  to  maniage;  of  Lady  Everleigh's  vain  triumph  over 
her ;  and  then  for  the  first  time  she  realized  what  his  suf- 
ferings had  been.  She  never  thought  of  that  part  of  it 
before;  she  had  pictured  him  always  as  gay,  happy,  suc- 
cessful. To  think  of  him  as  lonely,  melancholy,  with 
blighted,  ruined  life  had  not  occurred  to  her.  Now  she 
realized  his  part  in  the  matter. 

He  was  one  of  the  first  peers  in  England,  the  descend- 
•ni  of  a  grand  old  race;  his  name  and  title  dear  to  ^ 


THE  DUKE'S  SECMET.  B61 

jLeart,  and  he  was  alone.    He  could  ask  no  woman  io  share 

his  heart,  to  share  his  title,  to  brighten  his  home;  he  must 
pass  tbrough  life  with  a  bitter  secret  eating  away  his 
heart;  love  of  wife  or  child  could  never  be  his — never  I 

He  was  condemned  to  a  life  such  as  no  man  could  en- 
dure— married,  yet  with  no  wife — title,  fortune,  estates, 
honors,  all  to  pass  to  a  man  whom  his  mother  hated,  to 
the  son  of  a  woman  who  triumphed  so  basely  over  her. 
Then,  when  she  understood  what  he  had  to  suffer,  she 
wished  to  see  him.  When  she  was  going  to  a  party  or 
a  ball  she  dressed  herself  with  the  greatest  care;  it  might 
come  any  evening,  this  event  on  which  she  had  begun  to 
dream  and  muse. 

It  did  come;  she  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  and  he 
did  not  know  her.  His  eyes  looked  into  hers  with  the 
careless  glance  of  a  stranger.  Her  heart  for  a  few  minutes 
seemed  to  have  ceased  beating,  and  then  she  remembered 
— the  love  of  other  days  was  crushed  and  buried  out  of 
sight. 

She  saw  also  that  what  people  said  of  him  was  quite 
true— he  looked  melancholy;  there  was  always  a  veil  of 
sadness  over  his  face,  there  was  no  ring  in  his  laughter, 
no  ring  in  his  voice.  He  looked  like  a  man  who  suffered, 
like  a  man  with  a  story;  and  she  alone  knew  what  the 
story  was.  She  might  have  relented  to  him  but  for  the 
duchess;  whenever  Naomi  saw  that  stately  and  beautiful 
lady  her  whole  soul  rose  in  hot  rebelUon  against  her. 
And  her  dislike  to  the  haughty  woman  hardened  her 
heart  against  that  woman's  son. 

Then  she  began  to  notice  that  the  fair  young  Lady 
Valentine  was  jealous  of  her.  It  was  only  human  nature, 
then,  that  she  should  enter  the  lists  against  her.  She 
had  meant  no  harm;  she  had  never  intended  the  duke 
should  have  the  faintest  idea  of  her  identity.  At  the  end 
of  the  season  she  was  going  away,  and  might  never  see 
either  of  them  again ;  but  in  the  meantime  she  must  give 
Lady  Valentine  a  lesson.  All  this  abruptly  ended  when 
the  duke  claimed  her  as  his  wife.  It  was  an  emergency 
she  had  not  prepared  for,  had  not  anticipated.  He 
claimed  her  by  every  right,  human  and  divine;  she  waa 
his  by  the  law  of  Heaven  as  well  as  by  the  law  of  man. 
She  could  no  longer  hold  his  sin  before  her,  for  he  had 
fepented  of  it;  he  had  asked  her  forgiveness;  he  had 


862  THE  DUKE'S  SECRET. 

humiliated  himself  before  her;  he  had  explained  much  ol 
what  had  seemed  to  her  incomprehensible. 

Now  what  was  she  to  say  to  him  when  he  came  ? 

Lady  Valentine's  womanly,  noble  words  had  touched 
the  inmost  core  of  her  heart;  she  thought  of  them  over 
and  over  again  as  she  stood  there  debating  within  her- 
self the  grand  question  of  her  life;  what  would  she  say 
to  him  when  he  came  ? 

*'  That  girl  has  a  nobler  nature  than  mine,"  said  the 
beautiful,  thoughtful  woman  to  herself;  "  a  nobler  nature; 
and  she  loves  him  with  a  nobler  love." 

What  should  she  say  to  him  ?  Should  she  go  back  to 
him,  take  her  place  as  his  wife,  make  herself  known  to 
the  world  as  the  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  ?  Her  heart 
beat  high  at  the  thought.  She  saw  how  brilliant  was  the 
life  that  lay  before  her.  She  saw  how  happy  she  could 
make  him,  how  different  his  life  would  be  for  him.  How 
proud  and  pleased  the  duchess  would  be — and  there 
crept  into  her  heart,  noble  and  generous  as  it  was,  a 
shght  degree  of  feminine  satisfaction  that  her  grace 
would  be  dowager  duchess;  and  much  as  she  had  wished 
for  the  title,  Naomi  knew  she  would  not  like  hearing  it. 
There  is  something  in  the  word  "  dowager  "  not  always 
pleasant  to  those  who  still  retain  their  beauty  and  desire 
to  please. 

He  would  be  here  soon;  what  should  she  say  to  him — 
yes  or  no  ?  Should  she  be  Duchess  of  Castlemayne  or  re- 
main Miss  Glynton  until  the  end  of  her  life  ? 

Did  she  wish  to  charm  him  that  she  dressed  with  such 
elegance  and  care;  that  she  wore  diamonds  in  her  hair 
and  on  her  white  breast;  that  she  wore  a  white  lace 
trimmed  with  white  lilies  that  should  remind  him  of  a 
wedding-dress  ? 

That  told  more  than  anything  else  what  she  meant  to 
say, 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

BURIED   AT   SEA. 

It  was  the  prettiest  home  scene  possible.  It  brought  a 
gleam  of  comfort  and  warmth  to  the  duke's  heart  when  he 
entered.  The  beautiful  room,  with  its  lights  d,nd  flowers, 
the  beautiful  woman  in  her  diamonds  and  white  lace,  who 
awaited  him  with  that  fair  flush  on  her  face. 

''Naoim,"  eaid  the  duke,  as  he  entered  the  rooaa,  "I 


THE  duke's  secret.  363 

•an  nqt  tell  you  in  what  an  awkward  position  I  feel  myself 
to  be;  my  impulse  is  to  rush  up  to  you,  clasp  you  in  my 
arms,  and  caU  you  my  darling  wife.  If  I  did  it  you  might, 
perhaps,  order  me  away  again;  if  I  omit  it  I  shall  feel 
misarable." 

"Let  us  mak?  a  compromise,"  she  said.  "Do  not  rush 
up  to  me;  do  not  call  me  darling  wife;  but  here  is  my 
hand,  kiss  it,  and  say,  '  How  are  you,  Naomi?"' 

"No!"  he  cried,  impetuously,  "  that  I  will  not,"  and  be- 
fore she  had  time  to  resist,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and 
devoured  her  beautiful  face  in  kissea  He  kissed  the 
white  brow,  the  white  eyelids,  the  fragrant,  quivering  lips 
until  she  could  find  her  voice  and  cry  out. 

"No  morel" 

"  I  have  to  make  up  for  twelve  years,"  he  said.  "  Think 
of  the  kisses  you  owe  me,  Naomi." 

"  It  is  not  fair  to  begin  by  kissing  me,"  she  cried. 
"You  should  have  listened  to  me  first,  and  then  have 
asked  permission  to — to  kiss  me,  supposing  our  interview 
ended  pleasantly." 

"  I  have  not  the  least  douot  of  that,"  laughed  the  duke; 
"  but  I  am  tired  of  the  role  of  patient  husband.  I  begin 
from  this  moment  to  be  a  tyrant.  I  mean  to  have  my 
own  way ;  I  do  not  intend  our  interview  to  end,  nor  do  I 
intend  to  bow  to  your  sweet,  cold,  cruel  will  any  longer, 
my  Naomi" 

She  drew  back  startled;  she  was  not  prepared  for  this 
passionate  demonstration;  it  upset  all  her  arrangements 
and  plans;  but  he  was  resolute. 

"  I  will  have  no  more  of  it,  Naomi,"  he  said.  "  I  wor- 
shipped you  once,  I  worship  you  now;  I  was  a — cruel  to 
you  once,  I  will  love  you  doubly  all  the  rest  of  my  life." 

The  beautiful  face  softened;  and  this  time,  when  he 
threw  his  arms  round  her  and  drew  her  to  him  she  did 
not  resist. 

"  Naomi,"  he  whispered,  "  my  heart  is  full  of  impatience 
— where  is  my  child  ?" 

Then  of  her  own  free  will  she  laid  her  arms  round  his 
neck  and  kissed  his  face. 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  answered.  "  Come  with  me— 
where  I  can  see  the  stars  as  I  tell  you." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  beautiful  balcony,  from  which 
■he  could  see  the  sparkling  night  sky  with  its  glitter  of 


S64:  THE  duke's  secret. 

golden  stars;  the  moonlight  on  the  trees  and  green  parkfit 

"  The  stars  saw  so  much  I  have  to  narrate  that  I  can 
tell  you  better  under  this  light  than  in  a  room  " 

She  stood  there;  the  clouds  of  rich  lace  falling  from 
her,  the  diamonds  shining  in  her  golden  hair,  the  fairest 
Tision  his  eyes  had  ever  seen. 

"  I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  for  so  long.  I  shall  begin 
my  story  from  the  time  you  left  me." 

Passionate  kisses  closed  her  lips. 

"You  are  never  to  name  that  time  again."  he  said;  " it 
is  all  over  and  ended;  promise  me  you  will  not." 

"  I  will  not,"  she  said. 

She  told  him  every  detail  of  her  history,  how  quite  by 
accident  she  had  seen  the  advertisement  inserted  by  her 
uncle  in  the  papers,  answered  it,  and  went  oixt  to  him. 

"  I  meant  to  tell  him  the  story  of  my  marriage  when  he 
•aw  the  boy,"  she  said,  "  but  he  never  saw  him.  He  was 
quite  well,  my  little  Aired,  during  the  first  half  of  the 
journey,  and  then  he  began  to  sicken  of  some  childish 
fever  that  ended  fatally.  I  can  talk  to  yc  a  now,  Bertrand, 
without  tears.  I  have  shed  them  all.  My  heart  bums 
and  my  brain  seems  to  be  on  fire  wh^n  I  think  of  him; 
but  I  have  no  tears.    I  loved  him  so  utterlv,  so  com- 

Eletely,  that  I  wonder  I  lived  one  hour  after  he  died.  I 
ated  the  health  and  strength  that  wo  aid  not  Jet  me  die. 
Every  one — the  captain,  the  doctor,  the  passengers — was 
very  kind  to  me  and  my  beautiful  boy;  for  three  whole 
days  and  nights  I  sat  with  him  in  my  arms;  I  watched 
every  breath.  Ah,  Heaven,  I  can  not  tell  you  all  abon  t  it, 
it  would  kill  me  to  put  it  into  words.  It  has  been  a  great 
tearless  agony  of  which  I  have  told  no  one." 

He  kissed  and  soothed  her  with  loving  words. 

"  So  I  have  no  son,  Naomi.  I  have  only  you !"  he  said; 
**you  must  give  me  double  love  to  make  up  for  it." 

"He  died,  Bertrand,"  she  said,  "when  the  sun  was 
setting  over  the  sea,  with  a  calm,  sweet  smile  on  his  face, 
as  though  he  already  saw  the  angels  there.  I  never  re- 
member what  followed  his  death;  but  that  hoiirs  after- 
ward I  awoke  up  and  found  myself  alone.  The  stars 
were  shining  on  the  sea;  my  brain  whirled,  my  limbs 
trembled.  I  wanted  my  baby.  I  crept  up  the  ladder,  and 
just  as  I  reached  the  deck  I  saw  the  doctor.  I  held  out 
BOiy  hands  to  him.    'I  want  zuj  baby  I'  I  cried.     Htt 


THE  duke's  secret.  365 

tfiarted  back,  and  then  I  saw  a  little  group.  Oh,  Bertrand  I 
sleeping  or  waking,  can  I  ever  forget  how  the  stars  shone 
on  the  sea  I 

"A  little  group — the  captain,  who  held  my  hand 
when  baby  died,  and  told  me  '  how  little  angels  went 
home,'  the  doctor  and  a  sailor  who  had  a  cofl&n  in 
his  arms — and  the  captin  was  reading  prayers. 

"'Stop!' I  cried.  'You  are  not  going  to  bury  my 
baby  in  the  sea !  you  can  not,  you  dare  not  I' 

'"We  must,  my  dear,'  said  the  captain. 

"'But  you  can  not;  no  man  could  have  the  heart. 
Look  what  a  great  wide  ocean  it  is !  you  can  not  leave 
my  little  child  in  it  all  alone  —  such  a  little  child  I 
Why,  the  coffin  will  never  sink;  it  will  be  washed  forever 
through  those  great  waves  !  Oh,  if  it  must  go,  put  it  in 
my  arms,  and  let  me  go  with  it.' 

"  •  She  should  not  have  been  here,'  said  the  doctor. 

"A  httle  child,  alone  in  the  great,  lonely,  desolate 
ocean !"  I  cried  in  anguish.  "  If  it  were  nearer  land  I 
should  not  care  so  much." 

"  The  captain  laid  down  his  prayer-book  and  came  to 
me.  He  pointed  to  the  shining  stars,  and  the  waves  came 
rushing  by  as  though  they  were  singing  a  requiem  over 
a  newly  made  grave. 

"  *  Look  up  there,  my  dear,'  he  said,  in  his  kindly,  homely 
fashion;  'your  httle  child  is  there,  bright,  shining,  happy 
among  the  angels  of  heaven.  It  is  not  your  pretty, 
laughing  child  who  is  shut  up  here;  this  is  only  the  pretty, 
fair  shell  that  held  the  beautiful  soul.  When  you  think 
of  your  baby,  lookup  at  the  stars  in  heaven,  not  down  at 
the  stars  reflected  in  the  sea.  Kiss  the  little  coffin,  my 
dear;  we  made  it  as  pretty  as  we  could:  kiss  it,  and 
say,  '  I  give  my  little  child  to  Heaven.' 

"  I  did  as  he  told  me ;  and  then,  ah,  Bertrand !  I  looked 
at  the  water;  the  great,  green  waves  were  smooth  and 
bright;  the  shadow  of  the  stars  lay  in  them;  and  as  I 
looked,  something  first  cleaved  the  bright  green  water, 
confused  for  a  moment  the  picture  of  the  stars,  and  then 
the  waters  closed  again.  That  is  where  your  httle  son 
lies,  Bertrand,  in  the  midst  of  the  great  wide  Atlantic 
Ocean.    What  a  grave  for  that  little,  loving  child ! 

"  Time  heals  every  sorrow,"  she  said,  after  a  tir^ie.  "  1 
tave  learned  to  think  of  my  child  in  heaven;  but  ther« 

r 


866  THE  duke's  secret. 

are  two  things  I  can  not  bear:  one  is  the  long  wash  anci 
roll  of  the  waves,  the  other  is  the  stars  shining  on  the  sea. 
Mind,  I  must  never  live  within  sound  of  the  sea.  Why, 
Bertrand,  you  are  crying !" 

The  great  strong  frame  was  shaken  with  sobs,  the  dark 
handsome  face  was  wet  with  teai's. 

"  Oh,  Naomi,  it  is  my  sorrow,  too.  You  have  known  it 
for  twelve  years;  it  has  just  come  to  me;  it  is  new  to  me, 
but  none  the  less  sharp  and  bitter." 

She  did  what  would  have  seemed  to  her  quite  impossible 
before — she  kissed  his  tears  away. 

"He  was  just  like  you,  Bertrand,"  she  said;  "he  had 
the  loveliest  face  and  such  bonny  surls.  When  we  crossed 
the  ocean  to  come  back  to  England — my  uuc/e  and  I — I 
was  wondering  all  the  time  where  thnt  little  coffin  was." 

Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  leaned  his  head  on 
her  shoulder.  The}-  wept  together  over  the  little  one  lost 
so  long  ago;  and  after  that  between  tbem  there  could  be 
no  quarrel  or  parting  more. 

An  hour  or  two  afterward  the  duke  looked  up  with  a 
smile  into  his  wife's  face. 

"  When  will  you  come  home  with  me?"  he  asked;  and 
she  answered: 

"  Your  own  heart,  ought  to  tell  you  that  there  is  one 
amend  you  ought  to  make  me.  When  you  have  made  that 
I  will  come." 

"I  know  what  it  is,"  he  said,  "  and  it  shall  be  done." 

CHAPTER  LXX. 

EEOONOILIATION. 

Again  the  beautiful  Naomi,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne, 
stands  in  her  room  alone.  It  is  the  morning  after  her  in- 
terview with  the  dake,  and  she  is  wondering  if  he  has 
read  the  desire  of  her  heart  rightly.  If  he  has  she  will  go 
away  with  him  at  once  when  he  asks  her;  if  not,  then  she 
wovdd  keep  him  in  suspense  a  day  or  two  longer. 

But  he  had  divined  it,  for  Avhile  she  stands  arranging 
some  of  hev  best  loved  Howers  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of 
Castlemayne  are  announced.  She  grew  pale  and  trembled 
sHghtly  as  the  tall,  stately  figure  of  the  duchess  swept  into 
the  room. 

She  was  face  to  face  with  the  woman  who  had  crushed 
her,  at  last 

■>    •»       -  -  . 

■*i8 


THE  dtjke's  secret.  36T 

'*?f?^t>!Bi,'*  said  Duke  Bertrand,  "I  hare  told  my  mother 
all,  anJ  she  has  come  to  ask  your  forgiveness,  and  to  ask 
for  mine." 

Then  the  dowager  duchess  spoke.  It  cost  her  an  effort 
She  looked  pale  and  agitated.  She  came  forward  and 
took  Naomi's  hand  in  hers. 

"  I  am  a  proud  woman,  Naomi,"  she  said,  "  and  I  do 
not  remember  that  I  have  humbled  myself  to  any  one  in 
my  life.  I  have  never  begged  pardon  of  any  man  or 
woman.  I  humble  myself  before  you  now.  I  beg  your 
pardon  for  my  unjust  suspicions,  my  rash,  cruel  judg- 
ment, my  cruel  treatment  of  you.  Oh,  child !  why  did 
you  not  speak?" 

"  I  could  not;  my  promise  kept  me  silent,"  SMd  NaomL 

"  If  I  had  known  the  truth !  "  said  her  grace,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes.  "  I  was  cruel  to  you;  scornful  and 
proud  I     Will  you  forgive  me,  Naomi  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  she  replied,  solemnly ;  and  the  Dowager 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  laid  her  head  on  the  breast  of 
her  son's  wife,  and  shed  there  the  happiest  tears  she  had 
ever  shed  in  her  life. 

"  My  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  could  not  believe  Bertrand  at 
first.  He  had  to  repeat  his  story  many  times.  I  could 
not  understand  it  or  realize  it." 

"  It  must  have  surprised  you,"  said  Naomi,  thoughtfully. 

"  I  have  promised  my  son,"  continued  her  grace,  "  to 
Bay  nothing  to  you  of  the  pain  it  has  caused  me.  Nothing 
can  excuse  him  but  the  excess  of  youthful  folly.  Making 
love  to  you  was  wrong,  but  conceaUng  his  marriage,  in 
spite  of  what  had  happened,  was  to  my  mind  the  greatest 
wrong  of  all;  and  that  is  the  last  word  I  have  to  say  upon 
the  subject.  Naomi,  welcome  to  my  house  and  heart. 
liOve  my  son,  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  and  we  shall  be  happy." 

Duke  Bertrand  went  up  to  his  wife. 

*'Did  I  guess  the  one  thing  you  wished?"  he  asked. 

**Tes,"  she  rephed. 

"Then  give  me  my  reward,  Naomi." 

She  went  up  to  him  and  laid  her  arms  round  his  neck. 

"I  am  content  and  happy,"  she  said;  I  will  go  with  you 
where  you  will." 

"  So,"  said  the  astonished  Mr.  Glynton,  when  the  dow- 
ager duchess  had  finished  telling  him  the  romance,  "  89  X 
Kave  been  entertaining  a  duchess  all  these  years  I" 


368  THE  duke's  secret. 

Her  grace  had  desired  to  tell  him  the  story  herself.  The 
two  most  concerned  stood  by  in  silence.  He  was  rather 
amused  than  otherwise,  and  thought  more  of  the  fact  that  his 
niece  had  been  a  duchess  all  these  years  than  anything  else. 

He  promised  never  to  tell  the  secret,  and  he  never  did. 
He  married  Lady  Belle,  and  worshipped  her  until  the  end 
of  his  life.  He  confided  every  thought  to  her,  but  he 
never  told  her  the  duke's  secret,  and  the  world  never 
knew  it.  The  dowager  duchess  had  already  arranged 
everything  in  her  own  mind.  First,  with  great  pride,  she 
announced  the  engagement,  to  the  total  overthrow  of  all 
Lady  Everleigh's  hopes;  then  she  went  to  Italy  taking 
the  duke  and  duchess  with  her. 

From  Italy  the  marriage  was  announced,  but  neither 
date  nor  place  was  given,  and  those  who  read  it  smiled,  as 
they  thought  the  dowager  had  been  in  such  haste  to  get 
it  over,  that  she  had  omitted  all  the  details.  The  world 
thought  more  of  Lady  Everleigh's  defeat  than  of  the  dow- 
ager's success. 

"The  dowager  dare  not  lose  a  day,"  they  said;  "the 
duke  proposed  one  day  and  married  the  next;  he  waa 
married  at  some  out-of-the-way  place  in  Italy. 

But  that  wa«  his  business.  All  that  the  world  troubled 
itself  about  now  was  this — that  next  year  the  beautiful 
Duchess  of  Castlemayne  would  be  its  queen.  Ladj 
Everleigh  was  abroad;  she  had  been  too  arrogant,  too 
Bure,  and  very  few  sympathized  with  her  in  her  downfall 
With  both  her  daughters  married  and  her  son  in  India 
she  had  time  to  muse  on  the  vanities  of  the  world  an^ 
all  belonging  to  it. 

Two  years  later  on  there  was  another  wedding,  which 
brought  untold  happiness  to  Bood  Castle.  Lady  Valen- 
tine took  compassion  on  Harry  Bellairs,  and  made  him 
the  happiest  man  in  the  world. 

The  dowager  duchess  has  no  longer  any  fear  of  the 
succession,  for  three  healthy,  handsome  boys  call  her 
"  Grandmamma."  But  Naomi,  Duchess  of  Castlemayne, 
amid  all  her  happiness,  thinks  of  the  little  coffin  lost  in 
the  green  shining  waves,  and  dreads  more  than  anything 
•be  the  sound  of  the  moaning  sea. 


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Wee  cMacgreegor 

A  Scottish  Story  by  J.  J.  Bell. 

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From  Pioneer  Home  to  White  Hoi'se  :  Life  of  Abraham  Lincoln. 

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From    Cottage   to   Castlk  ;   The   Story   of   Gutenberg,    Inventor   of 
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Dictionaries  of  the 
Foreign  Languages 


The  increased  demand  for  good,  low  priced.  Foreign 
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OERMAN-ENGLISH  Dictionary,  Price,  Postpaid,  $1.00. 
FRENCH.  ENGLISH         "  "  **        $1.00. 

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HURST  &  CO.,  "Puhtishers, 
395-399  Broadway,  New  York. 


VVF.BbTKR'S 


Dictionaries  of 
the  English 
Language 


A  DICTIONARY  is  a  book  of  reference  ;  a  book 
that  is  constantly  looked  into  for  information  on 
various  meanings  and  pronunciations  of  the  several 
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Peabody's  Webster  Dictionary,  -  -  -  20c. 
Hiirsi's  Webster  Dictionary,  -  -  -  -  25c. 
American  Popular  Dictionary,  -  -  -  35c. 
American  Diamond  Dictionary,  (K^r^"ic^)  *^t^- 
Hiiwst's  New  Nuttall,  75c.  With  Index,  $1.00. 
Webster's  Quarto  Dictionary,  Cloth,      -    $1.25. 

"  "  "  }i  Russia,    $1.75. 

"  "  "  Full  Sheep,    $2.25. 


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HMST  &  CO.,  Pnblisliers,  395-399  Broadway,  NewYort 


.^SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  UBRAHY  FAOUIY 


A     000  128  237     5 


